Dreaming of You
by Zoop
Summary: Tanith Walker knows the Lord of the Rings movies by heart, but the real deal is a lot different. Aragorn isn't as hot as she expected, and the only hunk of tasty male flesh she's seeing naked belongs to an Orc. Good thing *that* isn't real... or is it? Cover art by Amy Rowell.
1. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**To Sleep, Perchance to Dream**

Popcorn popped, favorite soda on the coffee table, blanket, pillow... present and accounted for. My regular _Fellowship of the Ring_ get-ready-to-rummbuuuullll supplies were laid out. Yeah, I'd watched it seventy trillion times. Whatever. Still gave me goosebumps. Viggo was a _total_ hottie. I could even give Sean an appreciative glance once in awhile, even though he turned into a dork later on. Didn't matter. Unshaven, unwashed, and scruffy as he was, Viggo still had _**it**_. And I wanted to watch it _again._

I could forget my endless week of trying to please everyone and everything nationwide. Such was the life of a government peon. Whether you could help the people on the phone or not, whether they were rude as hell to you or sweet as pie, the 'yes, ma'am's and 'no, sir's and 'I'll make sure your complaint reaches the appropriate authority's still had to roll off the tongue as if you meant them. Until the weekend, when you could tell the telemarketers to go screw their grannies. _That_ you could mean.

Rubbing my eyes, I tried to forget for one blessed evening that I worked in a pitifully small office inspecting goods entering and leaving the country on international flights, and let myself wander into a less complicated world. A world where it's easy to tell the good guys from the bad guys: good guys are beautiful, and bad guys are ugly. Easy peasy. Good guys get to exact instant justice on the bad guys, too, not lock them away in a prison to eternally feed off the public while wishy-washy politicians debated whether lethal injection or electrocution was more 'humane.' Or whether the guy caught red-handed with the victim's head in his icebox was really guilty of the murder or not.

_There I go again_, I thought with annoyance. _Shut the hell up, and listen to what Gandalf is saying. It could be important_. Like I didn't already have the dialogue memorized.

No matter how many times I watched the party scene, Merry and Pippin's introduction with the fireworks still got a chuckle out of me. I wished I knew guys like them. Curling up on the couch with my fuzzy pink kitty slippers, dressed in purple cotton Eeyore pajamas, I snuggled up warmly with my blankie and smiled.

I could feel my eyelids beginning to droop about when the Black Rider made his first appearance. _No, Frodo, don't put on the Ring!_ my weary thoughts mumbled automatically. Thank goodness for Sam, because if it were up to me to stop him, I probably would be too busy screaming and running around like an imbecile because a centipede crawled across my arm. Like there'd be a chance of the Nazgûl missing _that_.

After a moment, my eyes jerked open. I'd drifted off a little, I supposed, for now our intrepid wanderers were running flat out for the Bucklebury Ferry. Dammit, I couldn't keep my eyes open. No. Sleeping was _not_ an option when Viggo was about to enter the scene. They'd be at the gates of Bree in just a few minutes... Hang in there... Once I see him, I'm sure I won't... be able to... close... my eyes...

* * *

><p>How the hell did my couch get so <em>hard<em> all of a sudden? Did I leave a window open? I was cold, stiff, and rather shocked at how _dark_ it was. Maybe the power went out...

And maybe it took my apartment with it.

Oh crap. I was outside. In my pajamas, near as I could tell. On a doorstep. Someone's freaking _doorstep_. It was bloody _freezing_ out, too. Wasn't it summer? What the hell?

Sitting up, I leaned against the door and tried to get my eyes to adjust to the gloom. There were darker shadows against the black sky, like a tall hedge or several trees planted close together. It was rather strange. I couldn't recall anyone living nearby - certainly not within walking distance - who had a house surrounded by trees. My apartment was on a busy street with few residential neighborhoods around it. I would have had to sleep walk for a couple of miles to find a place like this.

Of course, a quick glance at the sky told me I wasn't anywhere near where I thought I was. I would have had to drive for at least an hour to find a place so deep in the countryside that the actual _Milky Way_ was visible.

The sky was quite literally pocked with stars. I hadn't seen so many since camping as a kid with my dad. It was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen in my life.

I was so transfixed by the sky, I totally forgot about the house, and wasn't prepared when the door suddenly opened behind me, spilling me backwards into several pairs of legs. Very _short_ legs, come to find out.

"Here now, what's this?" one of the leg owners said, obviously startled. "Who're you?"

I scrambled up... and up. Holy mother of god, I _towered_ over these guys! I just stared at them, bewildered for several seconds. Then it hit me.

Short. Kind of round in the middle. Curly-headed. Bare feet with hairy tops. Good lord, they're Hobbits. But they didn't look like Elijah or Sean or Dominic or Billy. Well, maybe a _little_. If all those guys put on about fifty pounds. Who the extra one was, I had no idea.

"Um...," I offered intelligently.

"Have you been spying?" the speaker accused, glaring at me.

I swear, the first thing that came to mind was, _No sir, I ain't been dropping no eaves_. But I restrained myself.

"No, I swear!" I cried, shaking my head vigorously. "Um... I just sort of... fell asleep here. I guess. A bit."

"We don't have time for this," another one said, still eying me warily. "State your business, and be quick."

"Um... I... uh...," I hedged, thinking fast. Or as fast as my sluggish brain could manage, under the circumstances. "I heard you're going to Bree, and I thought..."

"Who told you that?" the same one said hotly, crossing his arms over his chest. "None but these four knew anything of my plans!"

"Oh, so _you're_ Frodo!" I crowed, smacking my forehead and pointing at him as if I'd just made the connection in a game of twenty questions. I could tell I was right by the stunned look on his face.

"How do you know me?" he hissed suspiciously while the others shushed me and glanced around warily.

"Uh..." I didn't think I was making too great an impression on these guys.

"Are you _from_ Bree?" another asked, and I wondered if it was Merry. He always seemed the more well-traveled.

"Sure, yes, that's it," I said eagerly. "I'm from Bree. I'm on my way back there now. I'd... uh... love to travel with you, if you don't mind. Safety in numbers, and all." I shrugged kind of lamely and grinned. I'm not sure they could see it in the dim light coming from the foyer, though.

But then, I was pretty damn sure Bag End was built into the side of a hill, too. This was more of a house like I was accustomed to seeing back home, though the door was round.

"I suppose you would know to come here, since I told everyone back in Hobbiton of _these_ plans, at least," Frodo said thoughtfully. "But I told none that I would not be staying. How did you come by such news?"

"This... isn't... Bag End?" I asked hesitantly.

They exchanged bewildered glances. "No. This is Crickhollow, in Buckland. Where did you _think_ you were?"

"Crick _what_ in Buck _where_?"

"Who told you my plans?" Frodo pressed, enunciating each word slowly and clearly as if he were an American tourist. Yeah, I know what we're like: slower and louder English is _much_ easier for non-English speakers to understand than regular English spoken normally. We're idiots. But apparently this applied to whatever passed for the "Common Tongue" around here, too.

This wasn't getting anywhere, and by the way everyone was chafing and antsy, it seemed I was holding them up beyond what was acceptable even for polite gentlemen. Any minute now, one of them was going to rudely clear his throat.

"Okay, you want the absolute truth?" I said with a sigh. "Gandalf sent me. I... uh... he was delayed, and sent me in his place to make sure you... got moving. You know. Left and such. Before the Black Riders catch up to you."

"Gandalf sent you," Frodo repeated skeptically. Frankly, I was having a hard time believing me, too. Regardless, I had until Bree to come up with a different story. I probably wouldn't be able to convince Viggo... uh, Aragorn. Strider. Whatever.

Oh. My. God. I was going to meet Aragorn. _Fangirl squee!_

Okay, self, _compose_. Settle down.

"Yes, he sent me," I replied a bit more confidently. Falsely confident, but hopefully they wouldn't catch that. "I know what you carry, and I'm here to help in any way I can."

"Oh, just bring her," one of the ones said who'd been quiet all this time. "If naught but ill comes of it, you'll be no worse off, I reckon."

"I'm not sure as I trust a Big Person," the spy accuser said under his breath. "Mr. Frodo, it's up to you, but I don't remember Gandalf saying nothing about taking a lady along."

"You must be Sam," I laughed. Now _he_ was startled. "Gandalf said you'd be suspicious of me. I'll try not to cause any trouble."

"What's _your_ name, then?" Sam bit back.

"Tanith," I replied. "Tanith Walker."

"What in the world are _those_?" the mysterious fifth wheel asked, pointing at my feet. All eyes shot downward and widened with surprise.

"Uh... slippers?" I suggested uneasily.

"And what is on your clothing?"

"A... uh... very sad donkey," I muttered. "Look, um... I don't suppose you have extra _extra_ large clothes lying around?"

* * *

><p>Luck was not on my side in the area of outfitting, but at least I was following the Hobbits on their journey. For some strange reason, they were headed for a gate in a tall, overgrown hedge where the unknown Hobbit pretty much waved and ran off. Seemed to me he was saying <em>Better you than me!<em>

I'd seen the movie a gazillion times, and I had _no_ recollection of _this_. Didn't they go straight from the ferry to Bree? What's up with the side trip through a great, evil forest? And where did all these damn ponies come from? There were _five_ of them. I swear they left the Shire without a single one.

Mystery ponies notwithstanding, we were now in a great, big, evil forest. It made me extremely nervous, and reminded me somewhat of Fangorn from _The Two Towers_. Like the special effects guys in charge of Spanish moss and vines went completely apeshit here like they did in the other forest. The sun was starting to come up, but you'd hardly know it. Apart from being able to see a little better where you were going, daylight didn't seem to have much other benefit. I barely listened to the Hobbits chattering away about this and that. It's quite possible they were talking about the forest, but I was completely oblivious. I felt like eyes were on me, watching. And they weren't happy eyes, not welcoming eyes. Not at all.

You know how you can get a feel of a person based on body language, tone of voice, where their eyes focus, how their lips move? All those visual cues? Well, in the absence of seeing anyone or anything to assess the threat level, I had to go with other senses, and they were _screamin__g_ that there was evil afoot and we were headed straight for it.

I did actually catch Merry saying something about being frustrated that we were headed _away_ from where he wanted us to go, and he couldn't do much about it. Like the forest was herding us to this apparently god-awful place called _Withywindle_. Holy crap, it _was_ just like Fangorn, but honestly, that forest was miles and another whole movie away. We hadn't even gotten to _Bree_ yet. Where the hell _were_ we?

We reached the banks of a river, and Merry seemed even more agitated, but really tired. It was now full day, and while we'd stopped for about half a dozen meals already, because they're _Hobbits_, everyone dropped to take another breather anyway. I sat down to check out my slippers, which weren't made for this sort of treatment, not by a long shot.

They were still very damp from walking in the dew-soaked grass to get to the hedge. Already the soles were starting to wear out. Another few hours, and the soft cushion would wear through completely. I pondered the possibility of just hanging it up and going barefoot, but my brain wasn't in the mood for complicated debates like that. Like they'd done while watching the movie, my eyelids started to droop. There was a weird humming in my ears; not unpleasant, and not like bugs or anything, more like... a soothing voice murmuring... something.

The next thing I knew, there was a round-faced, blue-eyed man with bushy brown hair and a thick, mountain-man sort of beard staring down at me. He wore a big floppy hat and a blue jacket. I just sort of blinked at him with surprise.

"There, now," he said kindly, a twinkle in his eye. "The willow song is put to rest, and soon so shall weary travelers." Turning, he laughed, "You shall come home with me! The table is laid for all, and Goldberry is waiting. Time enough for questions when we have supped and drunk our fill. Follow me as quick as you are able!" With that, the strange man _skipped_ down the path, singing and dancing all the way.

I was completely floored. Who the _hell_ was _that_? Merry and Pippin grabbed my hands and pulled me to my feet, then we all hustled after him, trying to keep the big blue feather in his hat in sight as he bobbed and weaved ahead of us. The Hobbits brought me up to date, informing me that we were under some kind of sleep spell, a big honking _tree _tried to eat Merry and Pippin, and the same tree threw Frodo into the river to drown him.

Yeah. That's right. The _tree_ did all that. Huh. Odd. I thought those two didn't get eaten by a tree until Fangorn. But then, that was in the _extended_ edition.

Anyway, the Old Forest seemed to be reluctant to let us go, and stepped up the creep-factor as we got close to the border. It was like dragging myself to work every day. Like you knew you were going somewhere unpleasant that you hated, but you _had_ to go, there really wasn't any choice.

As soon as we left the cover of the trees and saw what's-his-name's house, it felt like a shroud was lifted and we could breathe again. Whoever this guy was, he had awesome landscapers. The grass was so well tended I almost thought I'd stepped onto the world's biggest putting green. The house was huge and sprawling, and built on the top of a rise as if it were sort of dropped there by a big kid and spilled over the sides. Not a mess by any means, but one that would have 'quaint with lots of character' in the realtor's description.

Up on the porch, we could see the happy guy standing there, waving and singing his silly songs that made no damn sense. I had to admit that after the oppressive forest, this guy was a really nice change. I hoped he wouldn't turn out to be one of those irrepressibly cheerful people who make you want to murder them within five minutes because absolutely _nothing_ gets them down.

Which suddenly put me in mind of an ancient Steve Martin bit where he's talking about music, and how you just _can't_ sing a depressing song with a banjo. _Oh, death and grief and sorrow and murder._ Yeah. You just want to clap and sing along. And I didn't know what the hell that had to do with this guy, other than that he was like banjo music to me.

Out of nowhere a woman's voice joined in, and _her_ voice reminded me of trickling water. Not the kind of sound that makes you need to pee, but sort of like the chuckling, giggling sound of water over smooth river stones.

Eventually, we made it into the house, and _wow_ did they ever welcome us. Total strangers, never met before, and this guy, whose name was Tom Bombadil I learned, just totally embraced us like we were old friends. For a semi-city girl who was accustomed to keeping her eyes down when the neighbors I'd lived next to for years walked by so I wouldn't feel obligated to strike up a conversation, this was _weird_.

The woman we heard turned out to be named Goldberry, and I was pretty sure I'd heard Tom mention her earlier in passing. She was one of those stunningly beautiful women you feel really plain and uninteresting next to, but her whole manner sort of makes you feel like it doesn't matter to _her_, and because of that, nobody _else_ thinks you're ugly by comparison because _she_ doesn't think you are.

"Enter, good guests!" she cried, rising to greet us. She was just as energetically enthusiastic as her husband Tom, who'd gone out to tend the ponies, and soon even _I_ was feeling right at home.

The décor fascinated me more than the conversation. I hadn't gone into the house at Crick-whatsis, so this was the first _real_ house I'd seen. The entry was well-lit and very cozy; lamps hung from the ceiling and candles burned throughout the room. The lady of the house was sitting across from the front door surrounded by basins and pots filled with water, in which white lilies floated, when we entered, and now led us to a huge, dark-wooden table to sit and rest until Tom came back. She began bustling about, bringing in platters of food to lay out on the table.

"Please," Frodo said a little shyly to Goldberry, "who _is_ Tom Bombadil?"

"He is," she said with a gentle smile. "He is the Master of wood, water and hill."

"I wonder if he knows why _I'm_ here," I muttered. It would certainly ease my mind, knowing what purpose I was supposed to fulfill. I frankly didn't see much value in throwing someone from _my_ world into _this_ one as 'the hero without whom the good guys cannot possibly win.' What a laugh _that_ would be. Quite the joke on some unsuspecting idiot.

"Such knowledge may not be his," Goldberry said, and I was a little startled that I'd spoken loudly enough to be heard by anyone. "But you may ask him upon his return."

Naturally, the Hobbits all looked at me with surprise. They thought I was Gandalf's friend, after all.

"Yes, I'll ask," I said quickly. "So... what's next? Now that we're through the forest?"

Merry raised an eyebrow. "Well, we need to get to the East Road, and that means from here we must travel through the Barrow Downs."

I nodded. Didn't sound too bad.

"After that, we are to meet Gandalf in Bree," Frodo supplied. "From there... I do not know."

"Good, good," I said. "Bree is an interesting town."

The front door suddenly opened, and Tom Bombadil entered. "How fare our guests? Have all been soothed of their hurts? The feast prepared and the table set?"

"All is in readiness, though our guests may not be." She smiled kindly at all of us as she ushered us into a room with several soft-looking mattresses laid out for us, apparently, and basins with cool water. Washing up, I was pretty surprised to see that there was one large mattress longer than the others, as if our hosts knew a 'Big Person' traveled with four short Hobbits and needed a bigger pallet to sleep on. The little green slippers next to each mattress also seemed to be intended for wide and long Hobbit feet, compared to the ones next to _my_ mattress that were dainty by comparison.

The perfection of everything made me think I was on the holodeck in _Star Trek: The Next Generation_, the way the right size clothing was made available when we needed it and there were just the right number of beds of the right size for our different forms. What was next, Ensign Broccoli challenging Geordi LaForge to a Musketeer-like duel so he could get biz-zay with Deanna Troy?

Wow, I watch too much TV.

Stupid suspicions of completely out of this world conspiracies and inappropriate references to technological advancement aside, dinner was simple but oh so filling. I felt like I was going to pop if I didn't go have a lie-down. I excused myself and turned in early. That wasn't really a 'normal' nap I had, and I hadn't gotten much sleep after a really stressful week before coming _here_, where 'stress' is so pervasive it has the corner office and its own secretary. I think I was probably asleep before my head hit the pillow.

And I dreamed.

_The smells were horrible, like a fetid swamp backfilled with garbage. Stooped, dirty, and misshapen creatures limped or scuttled about, constantly checking on something in a huge mass of seething mud. One of them grunted rasping, unrecognizable words and pointed out one membranous mass that seemed to have... something... trying to get out._

_Two attendants converged on the thing and poked at it, perhaps checking reflexes or responses to their prodding. The flinching and muffled snarling must have satisfied them, for they began to rip into the membrane with their clawed hands._

_The tissue tore easily, and a slime-covered mockery of a humanoid form slithered out onto the dirty floor. It lay there weakly trying to rise for a moment, then seemed to come to its senses and scrambled to its feet. The attendants looked it over and nodded with satisfaction. Each one grabbing an arm of the confused creature, they roughly dragged it away._

I shot awake and sat up straight, my heart racing and breath coming in gasps. What the _hell_?

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I _think_ the Steve Martin bit is on either "Let's Get Small" or "Wild and Crazy Guy." Memory is vague on that. And yes, I had the vinyls. Dear god, how old does that make me? ;) _Star Trek:TNG_ episode referenced is "Hollow Pursuits." Massive apologies to Tolkien for grabbing some of his lines and paraphrasing others, but you stick a strange woman dressed in purple jammies into the mix, and people aren't going to follow the script. :)**


	2. Hippies in the Woods

**Hippies in the Woods**

To say that dream was unsettling in the extreme would be an understatement. Usually when I had a dream, I could _tell_ it was a dream when I woke up. There was always something really weird, like being absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was in the house I grew up in, but the rooms were in _all_ the wrong places, or the carpets were _never_ that color... _something_ would just scream 'this is a dream!'

Not this one. It was more like 'this is a movie!' than a dream. It was similar to the couple of scenes from _Fellowship_ where you actually get to see an Uruk being born. If possible, it was a hundred times more gross than the movie. And so disturbingly _real_. I could _sm__ell_ it...

Shuddering, I rose from my mattress and stretched. It was more like a futon than a mattress, actually. Apparently, I was the lazy layabout, because everyone else was already up and at'em. To my delight, Tom and Goldberry provided a change of clothes. While I adored my Eeyore PJs, they weren't very practical. Imagine me walking into _The Prancing Pony_ dressed like a five-year-old from another world. Yeah, _that's_ inconspicuous. Way to travel under the radar, Pinky.

The lace-up bodice lifted my breasts nicely, considering I left the house without a bra on. I could have done without the floor-length skirt, though.

As it turned out, the sky opened up like a celestial sprinkler system, and our hosts offered another night's lodgings. Of course, we accepted. They were really nice people, like the cool hippies down the street or something.

While the possessors of the Y chromosome smoked their pipes and discussed boring things like what a bunch of dead people did thousands of years ago, I sidled up to Goldberry and told her about the dream I had. She seemed to be... I don't know, _sensitive_. Like she had more than a passing acquaintance with esoteric things like dream interpretation. Probably read Tarot cards and dug numerology, too.

Her brow pinched with distress. How in the hell could she still look gorgeous with a big furrow in the middle of her forehead? Sheesh, must be nice. I always looked like someone hit me in the face with an axe.

"You say... it was a familiar thing you saw?" she asked. "You have seen such... repellent things before?"

Warning bells went off in my head all of a sudden. It occurred to me that there was no way I could pass off a scene from a movie as anything but a real experience. Then how would I explain that I somehow got to witness an Orc being born at some point in my life?

"Um... not _really_," I said carefully. "What I meant was, I've _heard_ about how they're born. Probably a pack of lies, actually. You know how these rumors get started." I tried an innocently dismissive laugh on for size. She still looked worried, and nodded uncertainly.

"Perhaps... it is a symbol," she ventured. "Dreams often are."

"But... it was so _real_," I protested, the concern coming back. "The whole place just _stunk_. I don't remember _ever_ smelling anything in my dreams before."

Goldberry shrugged helplessly. "I do not have an answer for you, I'm afraid. What is certain, though, is that nothing passes through these walls and windows save moonlight and starlight. It could only have been a dream, and considering what you saw, one best forgotten."

I nodded. Yeah. Forget _that_. Piece of cake.

* * *

><p>That Tom Bombadil was a tale-spinner, that's for damn sure. Goldberry had 'washing' to do, apparently, and went out in that ridiculous downpour to take care of whatever chores she had. That left me with no other option than hunkering down with the boys and listening to an endless stream of talk. I didn't understand half of it, having no real context. Honestly, nobody talked about this stuff in the movies, so I was completely lost in a matter of minutes. Battles between kingdoms I'd never heard of, people and places that rang no bells whatsoever... My attention wandered, and eventually I guess I must have nodded off.<p>

Before I knew it, Goldberry was back and it was nightfall. She called us in to dinner which was, if possible, more fantastic than _last_ night's. What seemed to be the norm around here was good spirits degenerating into a sing-along, because Goldberry regaled us with her best songs. They certainly made me think of water rushing through shallow streambeds in a green and ethereal forest. She even _looked_ like water, wearing a shimmering silver dress. I found myself getting stupid and drowsy again like when Tom was going _on and on_ about dead guys and burial mounds earlier.

I woke up when Tom said, "Show me the precious ring!"

I almost crapped. Sitting up straight and staring at him with alarm, I started to shake. How the hell did he know about _that_? Then Frodo just pulled it out and handed it over! Geez Louise, _I_ hadn't even seen it yet!

The jovial man sat there playing with it, peering through it, examining it, tossing it around, and I was so stunned I just gaped. Then he put it on the end of his finger and looked closely at it. About a heartbeat went by before the Hobbits gasped, and it hit me right after: Tom didn't disappear. Laughing at our reactions, he handed it back to Frodo. The Hobbit turned it over and over in his hands, likely checking to make sure it was the same one he gave.

Personally, I was completely floored. First, that Frodo would _hand over_ to a _complete stranger_ - even one who had shown no signs of being... I don't know, _evil_ - the most dangerous piece of jewelry ever created. _Then_, said non-evil total stranger put the malevolent dingus on and nothing happened. Not even a shudder. Who _was_ this guy?

Maybe I shouldn't have fallen asleep every time he opened his mouth, huh?

My attention rammed back into the present when Merry freaked a little, because Frodo had vanished.

"Hey, come Frodo! Where be you a-going? Old Tom Bombadil's not as blind as that yet!"

What the... now he could _see_ someone wearing the One Ring? Damn, if ever I wanted access to Google, it was now. It was just starting to occur to me that _maybe_ the whiners and dissers on the public forums may have been on to something. Maybe there was more to the story that Peter Jackson didn't cover. Good grief, what the hell _else_ was coming that I didn't know about?

Trying desperately to ward off a panic attack, I missed everything said for quite awhile. This was just too damn scary all of a sudden. What was left out? What were we going to deal with next? We didn't have swords, and wouldn't until Weathertop when Aragorn handed over a bunch. Anything we met on the way, we'd have to... shout at it or run, I guess. What I wouldn't give for Sam's frying pan right about now. I wondered if he'd notice it missing.

When I refocused on the conversation, it was about the Barrow Downs, and how to avoid getting killed, I suspect. Great. Zombies. Just what I needed. What else? Vampires and werewolves? Assorted psychotic killers from the local mental institution? Why not all nine Nazgûl, while we're at it? Get it the hell over with.

I tried to memorize Tom's little jingle that would call him to our aid if we got stupid and lost, but honestly, it was too long. Where _I_ come from, if we wanted to remember something important, we jotted it down in our iPhones. I wasn't called upon to commit a hell of a lot to memory on a regular basis, especially not something I only heard once or twice. The Hobbits seemed to have it down, though, so that was okay, right? As long as one of _them_ lived long enough to sing a merry tune in the face of impending doom...

Oh god, we're gonna die.

Unperturbed, Tom lit a candle and led us back to our bedroom. I'd gotten several nice little cat naps throughout the day, but for some reason, the continuing rain outside made me want to get some more sleep. Changing back into my PJs in a little anteroom, I reasoned that I was traveling with the _heroes_ of the story. Movie or not, they were going to be fine, because they were _meant_ to survive. All four of them. Only Boromir got his ass handed to him, and that was because he was having 'a moment.' So the odds were good that I'd live through this, as long as I stuck close to the short guys and didn't get all grabby about the bling. I would be fine. Just fine...

_The creature stood straight and tall, flinching as a bucket of cold water was flung into his face. The slime slowly came off with each subsequent bucketful. He stood in a small alcove, sometimes opening his eyes to take in the activity going on beyond his handlers, enduring their 'care' in silence. They were shorter than him, hunched over... not like him. He shared many of their features: the clawed hands and feet in particular, as well as the jagged-toothed, fanged mouth, but there were differences. His legs were straight, body lean and muscular. He had broader shoulders and narrower hips._

_Behind them, though, he saw others like himself. They wore strange coverings on their bodies, and carried long, sharp things. They laughed often, and the sound of it stirred him, though he did not understand their words or the things they were doing. Mostly, they seemed to take pleasure in pushing these smaller ones around._

_He saw one go down, and those who had tormented the creature descended on it in a wild frenzy. He heard screams and roars... and did not know how to react. Part of him quivered, wanting to join the attack, while another part was hesitant, wanting to know __**why**__ they beat the small one._

_Glancing at his attendants, he saw that they did not turn, did not show any particular interest in the plight of the other. He wondered why this was so, when they were of the same kind._

_After a few minutes, the screams ended, and the group dispersed, perhaps looking for sport elsewhere. The creature they had attacked lay in pieces upon the floor, barely recognizable as what he was before._

_"Remove this," a deep-voiced being robed in white said. The creature looked at this new one and cringed. This was one to be afraid of, he realized. One who had greater power than any he had seen. He bowed his head in submission. Others of the small creatures scuttled over and began sweeping up the remains of their kin._

_He felt the powerful being's eyes upon him and glanced up. His attendants stepped aside to allow the white one closer. He met those glittering eyes for only a moment; he could not stand to linger in such thrall long._

_The white one took hold of his chin and lifted his head, turning it from side to side as if examining him for soundness. He felt the white one's eyes scanning his body; the scrutiny shamed and pleased him at the same time. He hoped he would be found satisfactory, yet he was exposed and could not hide. The white one nodded once, then placed his palm on the creature's forehead, allowing his long fingers to spread over top his head. Closing his eyes, the white one began to murmur._

_The creature screamed as if his limbs were being ripped off._

Again, I shot awake, the sound of the Uruk's scream echoing in my ears. I blinked in the darkness, and for a wild moment, I thought I was still in that alcove with him. Crap. I felt his _thoughts_... Or maybe just his feelings. It was hard to tell. All I knew for sure was that I wasn't just an observer this time. And that scene was _definitely_ not from the movie.

I sat on my futon for the rest of the night, afraid to go to sleep. Why the hell wasn't I dreaming of Aragorn? God, that would be preferable. Couldn't I watch _him_ getting a bath?

On the other hand... take that Uruk's head off, and he had... well... a pretty damn hot body. I was put in mind of that scene where Saruman looked over Lurtz and had a little Orc history chat with him. Slimy he may have been, but the actor was no slouch in the body building department. Apparently _that_ part of Uruk-hai physiology was true. Very man-like in stature. Frighteningly so.

And that was Saruman, all right. He didn't look exactly like Christopher Lee, but he was _very_ similar. Enough to know who he was, anyway. You know how you can look at someone and just _know_ they're a scumbag? Even an elegant scumbag? Yeah. That's Saruman. The expressions on his face when he looked around him were openly disgusted, as if all of this crap he'd made was really gross to him, and if he could conquer the world in a less stinky manner, he'd be totally on board with that. The way he looked at the newborn Uruk was like 'this is the pinnacle of all my efforts, the best of the best, even if it's repulsive and I wish I could set it on fire and make it disappear.' Pride and disdain. What that _last_ bit was all about, I had no idea.

* * *

><p>Come morning, we breakfasted alone and made ready to continue our journey. I was considerably less enthusiastic, what with the talk of zombies and a night filled with horrible visions of Saruman's biology experiments. I decided that, since Goldberry didn't have much to offer in the explanation department, it was unlikely Tom did either, so I kept this latest edition of 'Days of Our Orcish Lives' to myself.<p>

I managed to secure a pair of pants from Tom, though; me and skirts don't get on well even in my own world. Of course, coming from Tom, they were about the brightest blue you could possibly get, and pretty much screamed 'Look at _me_! Don't I look _fabulous_?' Yeah, _that's_ good camouflage. I'll notify the DoD back home that olive drab in the woods just ain't cuttin' it.

When we saw our hosts again, there was a lot of good-bying and hugging. Tom made us sing his jingle again just to make sure, and I sort of mumbled my way through it kind of lamely. That was good, actually, because I'd probably sing it whether an actual threat was nearby or not, and he'd get tired of getting called to protect me from bushes and rabbits, then _not_ come when there actually _was_ a threat worthy of his particular expertise... Yeah, better for everyone if the ding-a-ling didn't have access to the fire alarm.

We took off into the Downs, and once out of sight of the house, everything just sort of started to suck big time. Fog rolled back in, when I thought it would burn off from the sun being out. It was like the sun took one look at this place and threw its hands up in defeat. I walked beside Frodo's pony, holding on to the back of the saddle and looking around. I was just too big for these little kiddie rides they had, so ever since Crick-thing, I'd been on my feet while they rode in high style. Well, even mounted, they were only _just_ my height. So not really _high_ high style.

"So...," I ventured, and Frodo looked at me. "Did you, uh... think it was wise, showing Tom the Ring?"

"We should not speak of it openly," he said, glancing around. Honestly, we were engulfed by a pea-soup-fog, out in the middle of B.F.E., nobody in sight except the other three Hobbits. If _they_ didn't already know about it, we were in serious trouble. "I do not think he meant me ill."

"No, I suppose not," I conceded, then shrugged. "Still, better keep it under wraps, huh? And no putting it on to play tricks, either. That was a little... you know..."

"Yes, I regret it," he muttered. "I was... it did not affect him, as it did Bilbo. I confess, I wondered if he had not pocketed the true Ring, and given me a false one."

"Yeah, that thought occurred to me, too," I agreed. "I think... I think he was a good guy, if a little on the weird side. I didn't ever get the sense that he was trying to be deceitful. Positively the nicest people I've ever met."

"Indeed," Frodo said, and smiled. "I wish we could have stayed longer, but we must press on. I feel almost a desperate urging to be on my way. Gandalf... how I long for his counsel."

"I'm a poor substitute, I know," I said miserably. "I'll try to hold up my end of the deal. At least get us to Bree without mishap. Tom said the road was straight ahead, right? How could we possibly mess that up?"

"Hadn't we better stop for lunch?" Pippin called from behind us, and this idea was met with a great deal of enthusiasm. Hobbits, you know. So we made our way to a hollow in the middle of which was a standing stone, and unpacked some food. It was quite a nice little picnic, and we found ourselves laughing about this and that. I thought it was just me, that all the walking I was doing while they rode in relative comfort had worn me to a nub while they were raring to go. This didn't appear to be the case, as one by one, everyone sort of started getting drowsy and nodding off. Merry pulled out his pipe and sucked on it without bothering to light it, and eventually my own eyelids drooped.

There was a moment when I thought, _Don't let me sleep. I'll see __**him**__ again_. But I shook it off. A full tummy and some warm sun shining down on us on our little island in the fog made me not give a crap if I saw a hundred naked Orcs in my dream.

Okay, I think that would have been a bit much. Just the one was disturbing enough.

* * *

><p>I woke to Frodo shaking me in a panic. Bewildered, I struggled up. The ponies were huddled together in a damp cluster, the sun had descended and was barely shining above the rim of our hollow. Not that it had an easy time of it: we were literally enclosed in a wall of fog so thick it looked like we wouldn't be able to pass through it. We certainly couldn't <em>see<em> through it. Merry, Pippin, and Sam hastily packed everything up while Frodo and I gathered the nervous ponies.

As if a thunderous voice was bellowing about it in my head, I _knew_ something bad was going to happen. And it would suck extremely hard.

First disastrous realization was that we barely had a grip on what direction we were supposed to be going in. Second, the fog was so thick we couldn't see very far ahead; could barely see each other within a yard. I stuck by Frodo's pony like a burr, nearly getting a crick in my neck from all the looking around. I swore I could see shadows flitting just inside the mist, right where forms became indiscernible.

Then, like in all really good horror movies, the Hobbits started falling behind, and disappearing like the bogeyman was picking them off one by one. By the time we got to this pair of standing stones Frodo was bent on reaching, everyone was gone.

It was times like these that what was needed was a clear head and a strong constitution. I possessed neither. Once his pony spooked, threw him off, then bolted into the fog, Frodo started to lose it, and I was right there with him. At least we had each other in our mindless hysteria.

A very tiny part of my mind whispered warnings: _Don't shout! The nasties'll know where you are!_ The big, in-control part of my brain said, _Aaaaaaaagggghhhh!_

We shouted, called names, ran like idiots in different directions until I couldn't hear Frodo anymore, either. I was completely alone. What did Alice say in the Disney film? If you stay in one place, then whoever is trying to find you, will find you. So I stopped and hugged myself against the chill, trying to keep myself from flying apart.

All of a sudden, the air got exponentially colder, like someone opened a freezer door right behind me. I've heard people say that they can 'sense' when something nasty's behind them. Hair on the back of the neck bristles, cold chill goes down the spine, whole body stiffens... Yeah, I got all that. I was far away from the guys who were supposed to _live_. Just the unnecessary fifth wheel about to be taken out of the picture.

A hand dropped onto my shoulder straight out of a grave. Seriously. I looked at it, and it was all decayed and bony. The stench of the thing hit me, and I started to shake.

Before I passed out, I got to enjoy the rare treat of peeing down my leg. Oh goody.


	3. Barrows of Fun

**Barrows of Fun**

… _dead hand is broken.  
>Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open!<em>

I knew that voice. It cut through the fog that still lingered, the battle that was lost, the cries of the dying, stench of the dead... all wafted away as if gently blown by a fragrant breeze off the sea...

My eyes fluttered open, and I found myself looking up at a bright blue sky. Not even a fluffy white cloud to be seen. I just stared at it for a few minutes, wondering what became of the crows circling over the battlefield.

"Tanith!" a voice called, and I started with alarm for a moment. Sitting up, I looked about me, and all of a sudden remembered that I was Tanith Walker, some zombie grabbed me, _made me pee my pants_, and then everything went black. Until the battle started... but no, that wasn't _me_. Unless I mysteriously grew a penis and became a Númenórean soldier at some point. I decided I wouldn't check until I was sure no one was looking.

Frodo was chafing warmth back into my hands, looking worriedly at me. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Do I want to know what the hell happened, or would I sleep better tonight _not_ knowing?"

"I think... perhaps you should be spared frightful dreams," Frodo said solicitously. "I do not wish to relive it until we are well away, in any case."

Little did he know how weird and awful my dreams had been lately. Shuddering, I looked around. Tom had apparently rescued us, but we were all dressed like... well, a Greek chorus, basically. We wore ragged whitish robes that looked as if the local high school was re-using discarded choir robes for their production of _Antigone_, fetchingly accessorized with golden belts and enough jewelry to sink you to the bottom of a lake. I _almost_ lamented the loss of those blue pants.

"We can't go on dressed like _this_!" Sam cried. He plucked at the thin fabric with disgust. I decided Samwise Gamgee should get the 'Least Likely to Cross-Dress' award on this adventure.

"Cry me a river, Gamgee," I groused. "All _I've_ got left are my pajamas." So much for inconspicuous. Even bright blue pants were a damn sight less noticeable than purple Eeyore pajamas. "Not _even_ that, because the friggin' _ponies_ are gone!"

"Clothes are but little loss, when compared to lives," Tom admonished gently. "Be glad, my merry friends! Cast off these cold rags! Run naked on the grass, while Old Tom goes a-hunting!"

"Uh... _no_," I said, holding up a protesting finger. But the chipper hippie had already bounded away, singing more of his songs. Throwing my hands up in defeat, I thudded back down on the grass. The Hobbits exchanged looks with one another, and a few aimed at me, then shrugged and whipped those suckers off.

Oh my. Here's the thing: Hobbits look like they ought to be the size of a six-year-old or something, by height alone. So I guess I assumed that... physically... they'd be... you know, like little boys _down there_. Oh _hell_ no, they weren't. It wasn't like they were four little Toulouse-Lautrecs, but I have to dish: Sam had the biggest package of them all. Rosie was in for a real treat.

Did _I_ fling my robe off with wild abandon? No. Frickin'. Way. Here's _another_ thing: I hadn't... you know... done _it_. The thing. I hadn't been naked in front of a guy before, either. Even my gyno was a woman. I represented that rare demographic of mid-twenty-somethings who hadn't done the nasty in college. Even though _everyone else_ was doing it. Because you know what _moms_ say: if all your friends are jumping off a bridge... blah blah blah. So there was just no way I was getting naked in front of four men I barely knew.

And they were _men_, not little kids _dressed_ like men, as evidenced by the unparalleled vision of their junk bouncing around as they danced and ran on the grass. Good gracious me.

I was probably about as red in the face as I could possibly get as I tried not to watch them. Yes, they looked really happy and relieved to be alive and having a wonderful naked time of it, but sorry... call me a prude, but I couldn't even muster the will to stand up and join them while still dressed. Eventually, Tom came back with our ponies and a decidedly stout, round-bellied pony trotting along beside him.

"Here are your ponies, now!" he called. "They have sense enough to run _from_ danger, while you run _toward_ it! Heed their wisdom in these matters. But see, they return bearing all their burdens."

True enough, all the packs were still on them. I wasn't particularly relieved, though. Purple PJs in _The Prancing Pony_. Good grief. And having to meet _Aragorn_ while wearing purple PJs in _The Prancing Pony_. _Pathetic_.

Once everyone was properly dressed, including me in my purple duds donned well out of sight, we sat down to a wonderful picnic in the shadow of the, I now noticed, broken mound. Whatever happened while I was out cold was apparently very violent, because half the hill was blasted away. And lying in the grass was a glittering pile of _treasure_. Not a couple of things, but just... _piles_ of it. Gold coins, jewelry, weapons, armor, trinkets, serving dishes... I found myself utterly enthralled, and felt like a little girl presented with a closet full of princess dress-up bling. In fact, there was this really gorgeous green sparkle that caught my eye, and when I liberated it, I couldn't believe I actually _saw_ it in that pile. It was a fine silver chain with a very simple teardrop-cut emerald pendant. So beautiful... Before I knew it, I had it around my neck, and couldn't take my eyes off how it glinted in the sunlight. I caught Tom's eye and blushed, but he smiled and nodded, as if to say that it was perfectly fine for me to take it.

Tom rummaged in the pile and came up with four daggers for the Hobbits, and a sword for me.

Of course, I'd seen enough swashbuckling adventures to know which end I was supposed to poke into my enemy, but other than that, I was at a loss. Still wanting that frying pan, I confess. At least the resounding clang would let me know I made a successful hit.

So I had to assume now that _Tom_ was the true provider of sharp utensils, not Aragorn. Wow. _Kind_ of a relief that we didn't have to wait so long to get the necessary pokey things that keep you alive... assuming we knew what the hell to do with them. It didn't look like I was going to be the only one raiding Sam's pack for pans, though. These Hobbits were just as clueless as I was.

Good. We'll all die together. Nothing like getting roasted on a spit with your lame-ass friends because nobody knows how to fight. Fall-back position appeared to be 'fastest runner lives,' apparently. Having almost two feet of height on these guys, I felt fairly comfortable guessing who was likely going to win the race for the exit while the monsters were busy with the short stragglers. I was feeling better about this adventure already.

"You have an interesting tale to tell, I believe," Tom suddenly said beside me while the Hobbits were packing up our stuff.

"Uh...," I offered, gut clenching tightly. "What, uh, sort of tale do you mean?"

Tom smiled knowingly. "There is more to you than meets the eye, Tanith Walker. Old Tom has seen your like before. Always, the shapers of things come from the Outside. So it was in the Dark Times, and so it is again."

_Whuh_...? I must have looked like a fish with my mouth agape. Tom just smiled some more and began humming a tune.

As if to change the subject, but not by much, he asked, "But come, tell me of your dreams. I am told they are most... interesting."

My eyes probably got about as big as saucers, then narrowed considerably as I flicked a glance at the Hobbits. Sure enough, just in time for really embarrassing revelations, they were all ears, clustered around us. Oh deary dear.

With much hemming, hawing and hedging, I managed to relate my two dreams to the assemblage in something like a coherent narrative. What struck me as... well, _odd_, I suppose, was the clarity with which I recalled every detail. I would conservatively estimate that roughly 100% of my dreams faded from memory within hours, if not minutes, of waking. Yet Orc birth and bathing dreams seemed to engrave a permanent spot in my brain. Not surprising, maybe, considering the totally unexpected subject matter, but still. Pity it hadn't been an Aragorn bathing dream. I'll take nuded-up future kings over slimy, stinky Orcs any day.

Reactions were mixed. The Hobbits, of course, were disgusted. Sam in particular had the world's most comical 'who farted' look on his face. Pippin turned a lovely shade of chartreuse. Frodo suggested, while trying not to vomit, that it was the Ring making me have dreams of Sauron's servants. Tom scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully.

I had, naturally, avoided ID'ing Saruman specifically. Wouldn't want to steal Gandalf's thunder. Or have to answer even _more_ awkward questions.

"There is little under the moon and stars that Old Tom does not know or has not seen," he murmured. "There are dreams of true things, but even these are not easily read in the waking world."

"Were these... 'true dreams'?" I asked quietly.

"Only time will tell you such things," he replied. "I cannot."

"_Will_ not, or _can_not?" I pressed.

He smiled even bigger. "Yes."

Well, didn't _that_ just take the biscuit.

* * *

><p>Apparently assuming we were just too stupid to set loose in his country again, Tom accompanied us the rest of the way through the downs to the East Road. Everyone had a wonderful, fantastic, lovely ride except yours truly. Tom rode his big fat pony, appropriately named Fatty Lumpkin, the Hobbits rode their ponies, the pack pony lumbered along, and I brought up the rear on foot, grumbling under my breath and having a mostly sour time of it.<p>

Would it have _killed_ the freakazoid to tell me what the zip was the deal with the Orc dreams? Was I going to have to hold out until Gandalf arrived before I got any straight answers?

Geez, I might as well wait until my own time period rolled around, if I was expecting straight answers out of _that_ guy.

Once we reached the road, Tom advised us to seek out _The Prancing Pony_ in Bree for lodging, bade us farewell and turned his pony's head back toward home. We set our own sights on the road that would take us to Bree in only a few miles more. I looked woefully down at my pink kitty slippers, now soleless and hanging on like anklets of faux fur. Oh well. When in Rome. I took them off and stowed them in one of the packs on the riderless pony.

"We must be cautious," Frodo warned. "The name of 'Baggins' is _not_ to be mentioned. Call me Mr. Underhill if you must."

As we plodded along the road, I kept waiting for the god-awful downpour that heralded their arrival at Bree in the movie, but it didn't come. Not that I wished to take it up with the management or anything. Dry and warm was always preferable to soaked and freezing. I kept myself busy in the back by thinking of all the things I'd like to buy once we got a shot at the market stalls, assuming there were such things in Bree. Honestly, the movie only showed the one stretch of road leading to the _Pony_, so as far as _I_ knew, the town was a strip mall.

I was further surprised by the gates when we arrived. No big, towering, wooden affair was this, but something akin to a livestock gate. A little shack stood next to it, and a guy came bustling out holding a lantern high when he saw us.

"Whattayou want, and where d'you come from?" he asked rather bluntly.

"We are making for the _Pony_," Frodo answered. "We are weary from our long journey and can go no further tonight."

"Hobbits," the gatekeeper mused under his breath. "And from the Shire, by their talk." As he let us through the gate, he said more loudly, "We don't get many visitors from out of the Shire, leastways not traveling by night. What be your business, and by what names are you called?"

Scumbag. He had that extra special _something_ that just _screamed_ 'this man is a total scumbag.'

"Our names and our business are our own," Frodo said in that polite way gentlemen have of telling you you're a completely stupid ass.

"Aye, right enough," the gatekeeper soothed. "But it's my business to ask questions after nightfall." He glanced at me and did a double-take. Nope. Purple donkey drawers were definitely not a common sight around here.

"We've come from Buckland," Merry interjected. "We fancied some travel and wished to sample the hospitality of the _Pony_. Are such visits unwelcome nowadays?"

"Never mind, never mind. I meant no offense. There's queer folk about these days. Can't be too careful." He looked at me once more, then shrugged.

We finally escaped the scumbag gatekeeper's scrutiny and headed up the hill to the inn. It seemed that just seeing that place ahead was enough to remove the mental block that had protected me from realizing my feet effing _hurt_ after all those miles in next to no shoes. I suddenly didn't care _who_ had to die or get robbed, I was getting decent clothes before we left this town.

_The Prancing Pony_ was just as lively a place as the movie portrayed it. We went inside and my arrival immediately caught many eyes. Mine rolled in annoyed response to the attention.

"Remember," I hissed to the Hobbits surrounding me like I was a Maypole, "Ix-nay on the Aggins-bay, got it?"

Four completely non-'got it' faces peered up at me with bewildered frowns. This was going to be a very long epic.

The innkeeper, Barliman Butterbur, eventually stopped running madly around with mugs hooked to every finger long enough to see to us. Like the gatekeeper, he didn't need more than a few words to pin 'Shire' on the Hobbits' accent.

"Hobbits from the Shire!" he all but shouted, slapping his forehead. "Now what does that remind me of?"

"Obviously not to keep your voice down," I muttered. "Beds for five, please?" I gently reminded him. "And ponies?"

"Yes, yes, yes," he replied hastily, waving down a Hobbit running about on god knows what errand. "Nob! Go fetch Bob and tell him we've got five more ponies to find room for. I daresay some will have to double up. We're just that busy tonight. Got a party from the south come up the Greenway, they did. Queer enough, then there's the company of Dwarves on their way west. Now you lot. If you weren't Hobbits, I might not have room for you. But I have a couple of nice rooms made special for Hobbits that should please you. Oh."

You know what they say about mouth running too fast for brain to catch up. Mr. Butterbur finally realized he was looking at _one_ member of the group that wouldn't pass for a Hobbit no matter how drunk you were.

"Not a problem, sir," I said. "I'll bunk with them. We've been traveling for days together. We're like family now." I grinned and threw an arm around Pippin's shoulders since he was closest.

"If you're sure it's all right," he said warily. "I don't think I'd find a place for a lady traveling alone, and that's a fact." He was transfixed for a moment by my strange clothes, and I just painted on a sincere smile. He was, thankfully, too polite to comment on 'the lady's' attire.

"Now what was I going to say?" the innkeeper rallied, tapping his forehead. "One thing drives out another, as they say. Best get you accommodated. You look done in. Follow me!" And he led the way down the hall to our room.

Now _this_ was quite nice, if a bit low in the ceiling department. I could feel it brushing my hair. A bit claustrophobic, actually. But I was so damn grateful to have a place to drop and die, I wouldn't have cared if the back wall was missing. I threw myself down on the bed and... hung off the end.

God, why wasn't Tom Bombadil doing the decorating at the _Pony_? If _he_ were in charge, I'd have a bed that fit my height. Good frickin' grief. _Two feet_ of difference between my length and the bed's. Not easily ignored.

"Ah," Butterbur commented. "I'll have Nob fetch a larger mattress for you. We should have one somewhere."

"Thank you," Frodo said quickly. "You've been most kind."

"I'll have supper brought in," the innkeeper said as he bowed out. "Make yourselves comfortable and we'll be along in a bit."

If the names hadn't been the same, I would have thought this was a completely different person. _No_ resemblance to the innkeeper in the movie whatsoever. For one thing, _this_ one took your breath away with all the knees bent running about and the barrage of talk, talk, _talk_.

When room service rang, I still hadn't budged. Every part of me was stiff and sore, and my feet were _screaming_. I whimpered to Nob or Bob or whatever the Hobbit's name was that a basin with cold water would earn him a medal if he brought it with all haste. Should have asked for a change of clothes while I was at it. You couldn't tell me, with as many shady folks as the movie focused on, there weren't murders in the beds at night once in awhile. Had to be some spare duds about.

The Hobbits sort of dispersed at some point, asking if I minded them going down to join the company. Merry stuck around for a bit before heading out to 'have a sniff of the air.' Yeah, don't go by the stables, Chachi.

A larger mattress was delivered, and I collapsed on it gratefully and didn't move a muscle. Sleep took me so hard and fast, I didn't even see it coming.

_The Uruk stood between two larger Uruk-hai, each holding an arm to keep him from struggling. Before him stood one of the smaller Orcs. Still weak and trembling from his Master's treatment, he stood sagging a little in their grip, not knowing what was next and not caring. The smaller Orc grabbed his chin and looked his face over critically._

"_Come out good, you did," the Orc commented. "If yuh hadn't, you'd be feedin' these lads, not trainin' with'em."_

_The Uruk-hai holding him growled angrily at the Orc, clearly offended at the implication of cannibalism among their kind. The Orc just cackled a laugh and turned to a fire pit beside him._

"_Born on the new moon, you was," he muttered. "Pit number five. First one out for the day." He applied plates to the end of a metal shaft, then thrust it into the hottest part of the fire. "These be your first marks, whelp. Ain't gonna be the last. See that you get'em on the front, not the back. Won't like it so much on the back." Again, he cackled maniacally._

_When the brand was hot, he lifted it free and ordered the Uruk-hai to hold him steady. The Uruk roared with pain and fury as his flesh was seared with the mark of his birth._

Son of a _bitch_! I can't get a frickin' _moment's_ sleep without... God _dammit_!

Then the door opened, and Frodo, Sam, and Pippin came in. From my vantage point, I also saw a cloaked figure follow them in and have a seat by the door.

Oh... oh... oh... Strider! Squee! What the hell... why didn't I go down to the main room with them? I missed the whole thing! Crap! But there he was! Oh my goodness, did I look all right? Was my hair all screwed up? How about the pajamas, were they on straight? Oh my... oh my...

"I am so sorry we disturbed your rest," Frodo said apologetically, then Pippin happened to turn just the right way.

"Hey!" he cried when he saw Aragorn. "Who are you?"

"I am Strider," he said, pulling back the hood of his cloak. "Though he may have forgotten, your friend promised to speak with me in private."

My face fell. That guy was _not_ a ringer for Viggo. Not even a ringer for Viggo thirty years from now. His unkempt hair _might_ have been similar, but it was showing more grey than I would have expected. Even for an 80-something year old Dúnadan. _This_ guy had a much less friendly face, all stern and granddad-like. Ah, crap. There goes any hope of this being a fun trip. Orcs bathing started looking a bit more appetizing now.


	4. Aragorn is My Father

**Aragorn is My Father**

Five seconds into the conversation with Strider, and I was lost and not giving a damn about getting found again. What a _huge_ disappointment. Maybe he wasn't as decrepit as my grandfather, but he sure did have 'dad' written all over him. Not a 'manly hunk' or 'rugged swain' at all. So I sat sullenly in the corner while the 'menfolk' bandied words about Strider hooking up with us on our epic quest. To my surprise, he'd been following us since we came out of the Downs onto the road, and 'dropping eaves' when we parted ways with Tom.

At least he wasn't skulking about the barrow. I changed clothes behind that thing. Creepy.

The long and the short of it was, when he finally stopped talking about Frodo as if he weren't in the same room with us, _or_ the person he was talking _to_, he got around to telling us about the Black Riders, shady characters like some Bill Ferny guy, and in general pretty much painting a rather unsettling picture of 'Southerners.' I had no idea what the deal was with 'Southerners,' but from his tone and careful choice of words, it didn't sound like they served mint juleps under magnolia trees.

What _really_ annoyed me was all the beating around the bush. I mean, honestly, he was a friend of Gandalf's. He was _legitimately_ sent to meet the Hobbits and help them get to Rivendell, unlike me who was lying like a rug. All the yammering was boring the hell out of me. Just _tell_ us Gandalf sent you and be done with it! Geez. What was it about old people that they had to go _on_ and _on_ about boring crap? It was a relief when the innkeeper showed up with hot water and candles.

"Now, I do hope you're all comfortable and getting on," Butterbur said breathlessly. He was clearly still running his butt off out in the common room. "I've come to bid you good night, and tell you one last thing before you retire. I've had a busy time of it lately, and that's a fact. One thing drives out another, as you'll admit, I'm sure. Seeing you come in tonight reminded me that I was asked to look out for Hobbits of the Shire, one named Baggins in particular. Now, don't fuss; it was Gandalf who told me of it, and said you'd be traveling by the name of 'Underhill.'"

Frodo looked rather flabbergasted, and exchanged brief shocked looks with Pippin and Sam. "Have you seen him, then? When?"

"Quite some time ago now, I'm afraid," the innkeeper replied with embarrassment. "He bade me deliver a letter to you, and I would've done in all haste, but there wasn't anyone willing to take it that day or the next, and then... well, one thing after another drove it from my mind. I'll do what needs to be done to set things aright; you've only to name it."

"Well, I should like to have this letter, if you please," Frodo said rather crossly, folding his arms over his chest. I had to agree with him; though this was yet another tidbit that rang no bells, I at least knew that Frodo should have left the Shire a crap-ton earlier than he did. I was willing to bet my Granny's girdle that Gandalf's letter would tell him to get his ass out of Dodge weeks ago.

"Here," Butterbur said, handing a thick, wax-sealed parchment to the Hobbit. "I hope you'll forgive me, and no harm comes of it. With all the queer folk roaming about, I've had quite a few distractions. Black men from who knows where have been showing up, asking after 'Baggins,' and if they mean well, then I'm a Hobbit. And if it isn't these strangers frightening the folk and setting the dogs to whining, it's those Rangers showing up at odd hours asking questions. Why, that Strider tried to get in to see you, before you'd had a bare moment to rest yourselves or have a bite to eat, he did."

"Indeed!" Strider said, and I almost jumped out of my jammies. I realized he'd slunk into the shadows when Butterbur entered the little sitting room, and only now felt the perverse need to leap out at the poor flustered man and scare the bejesus out of him. "Had you let me see them when I asked, much trouble could have been saved, Barliman."

"My word!" Butterbur cried, clutching his heart. "What business have you with these Hobbits, I ask you?"

"He is here by my leave," Frodo quickly interjected. "We are... indeed... in dire need of help. He has offered as much."

"Well, I'm sure you know your own business, Mr. Underhill, but I'm not sure as I'd take up with a Ranger, no matter the need."

"Who would you recommend he 'take up with,' then?" Strider flared. "A fat innkeeper who only remembers his own name because people shout it at him all day?"

_Awkward_, I thought, suppressing a giggle. Mental score: Strider one, Butterbur zero. Folding my arms over my chest and leaning back in the chair, I started to think the old geezer may be less of a crushing disappointment than I originally thought.

"These 'black men' you speak of," Strider went on, lip curling in disgust, "have you any idea from where they hail?"

Butterbur blinked and shook his head. "I... I confess, my dearest wish was removing myself from their presence at the earliest moment."

"They are Black Riders," Strider said dramatically, and I rolled my eyes. "They come from..."

"Mordor," I finished impatiently. "They're freaking _Nazg__û__l_ from Mordor. And they'll be here tonight stabbing the crap out of mattresses. Can we move on, please? I'm tired."

"Save us!" Butterbur cried, and I swear, if Catholicism had been a factor, he would have crossed himself.

"How did you come by such knowledge?" Strider asked me, and all of a sudden he seemed to fully realize I was there. What, Eeyore pajamas are all the rage in his home town or something? Didn't call attention to myself with the weird colors?

Standing up and stretching my back, which made me tall enough to bonk my head on the ceiling in a most undignified way, I said, "I'm a friend of Gandalf's, and I've _also_ been tasked with guiding them. I brought them this far. I guess I pass the baton to you for the next leg of the trip, right?"

He looked me up and down in a particularly untrusting way. "What is _that_ you're wearing?"

Sighing, I said rather witheringly, "My _pajamas_. I was woken up from a nap, you know?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "But... you wear them all the time."

"Shut up, Sam. So...," I began, then paused. "Uh... where's Merry?"

"Still out, I expect," Frodo said wearily, then started. "He has not returned?"

"I'll send Nob out for him," the innkeeper offered. "He'll be safe inside before I bar the doors, rest assured." Nodding to all of us, and casting a doubtful look at Strider, Butterbur left.

The Ranger gave me one more uncertain look, then turned back to Frodo. "Come along now, read the letter."

Frodo composed himself and broke the seal. He didn't read it out loud; when he was done, he had a worried look on his face as he passed it around for the others to read. When I got a hold of it, I almost flipped it into the fireplace. If it was in the language we were all speaking, it sure as hell wasn't written using the Latin alphabet. Huffing impatiently, I dropped it onto the little table.

"But if you are the friend spoken of in this letter," Frodo was saying when I tuned back in, "why did you not mention it before? You might have spared us the time." _Yeah, what __**he**__ said_, I thought.

"I knew nothing of this letter," Strider explained. "I assumed I must gain your trust on my own account, and I confess I hoped you would accept my help by that measure. I have been long in the wilderness without friendship, and grow weary of traveling alone. Ah, but I'm certain my looks are against me on that score." He chuckled ironically, plucking at his worn, dirty tunic.

I had to agree with him there. Viggo I would have followed into Mordor. _This_ guy I wouldn't march to the bathroom with.

"I still don't know as I trust him," Sam said warily, crossing his arms over his chest. "How do we know you aren't a play-acting spy? You could've done in the real Strider. What have you to say to _that_?"

"I would say you are wiser than your companions," he said with a smile. "You, at least, have learned not to trust so easily. But in truth, if I had slain Strider and sought to take his likeness in order to deceive you, I could have killed you all by now without difficulty. If it were the Ring I was after, I could take it... NOW."

With an excessively dramatic flourish, Strider whipped his cloak aside to reveal the hilt of a longsword hanging from his belt. I confess, I thought the moment wasted because Strider wasn't wearing a corset and fishnet stockings under that cloak, but honestly, he was no Tim Curry.

"I am the real Strider, and that is most fortunate for you," he said solemnly. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and if by life or death I can save you, I will."

* * *

><p>I found myself nodding off in my chair as they continued to banter about who knows what. Then quite suddenly, the room erupted in chaos as Merry returned blathering about Black Riders on the street corners. His story was told in fits and starts, what with all the questions, but eventually got around to the gist, which was he was taking the air, saw a Black Rider skulking about, then ran across another one chatting up that notorious Bill Ferny character. Top it all off with something Strider called a whiff of the Black Breath, causing Merry to drop like a stone for a couple hours before Nob found him.<p>

_Finally_ everyone seemed to catch the clue bus and realize what I said was true: Black Riders were going to pay us a little visit in the night. We arranged to bed down in this little sitting room, with Strider keeping watch. Windows and doors barred, we settled in. Once more, I was thoroughly put out by having to go through this adventure with a completely disappointing Aragorn. Oh, sure, he was kingly and all. Oddly enough, he actually _wanted_ to be king; _expected_ to be king. I was under the impression he'd rather clean a festering outhouse in the summertime than take the throne, but apparently that was not the case.

Huh. Whatever. I was too tired to care. The room quieted down to snores and snuffles, and my own eyes closed. Moments passed, and then I was fast asleep.

_The Uruk stood still and curious as one of the smaller Orcs held a leather tunic up to his chest, eyeballing the fit. Shaking his head, the slave discarded the tunic and grabbed another one. Behind the Uruk, another larger one stood impatiently, testing the weight of a broad-bladed sword and taking a few practice swings._

_"Hurry it up, maggot," he snarled. "Whelp needs trainin'."_

_"Won't do no good if you kill'im in a heartbeat," the smaller Orc snarled. "Best covered, he is."_

_"Got a name, does he?"_

_"Aye," the Orc replied as he guided the Uruk's arms into the tunic's sleeves. "Call him __Û__nran." Bef__ore lacing up the front of the garment, the Orc poked __Û__nran's chest, his claw digging into the still raw brand in the center. He cackled. "New moon."_

_Û__nran flinched and growled. The Orc cuffed him upside the head. "Mind yourself. You ain't __got__ enough fa__vor to get uppity with me. Prove you're worth the skin keeping your guts in, and then you can backtalk your betters."_

_"You are not better than me," __Û__nran snarled, his voice__ deep and rough__ like a bear's if it could speak words._

_The Orc cackled again and shook his head. "T__hey all gotta learn some time, don't they?" The Uruk with the sword grunted a laugh but said nothing. __The Orc's__ expression suddenly changing from amused to enraged, __he__ took a swing at __Û__nran, catching the Uruk across the neck with his claws. Black blood well__ed in the furrows he dug, and __Û__nran roared furiously. Even as he launched himself at the smaller creature, he was yanked back by the hair._

_"That there's the Pitmaster, __**pushdug**__," the other Uruk growled. "You do not cross him, if you know what's good for you__."_

_Curling his lips and baring his teeth, __Û__nran allowed himself to be led away, but kept his malevolent gaze on the Pitmaster. The Orc just sneered at him, as if he had much higher ranked and larger enemies to contend with already; something as insignifica__nt as __Û__nran was of no importance._

_The Uruk with the sword ushered __Û__nran away. "Lesson learned, eh?"_

_"I will kill him," __Û__nran muttered. He was quivering with the need to avenge the attack._

_"Word to the wise," the Uruk cautioned. "He's got the Master's eye. You anger him, he tells the Master. The Master roasts your ass with a look."_

_"Then I will please Master," __Û__nran vowed. "I will gain his favor. And filth like the Pitmaster will not cross __**me**__."_

_The Uruk laughed and shook his head. "Ain't as easy as all that.__ Here." Halting at a weapon rack, he took a sword from it and pushed it into __Û__nran's hand. "We don't play games here, whelp. You pick it up fast, or you fill the bellies of them filthy Orcs."_

_Û__nran examined the unfamiliar weapon as he followed the Uruk to __a clear section of a massive underground staging area. All around them, pairs of Uruk-hai were sparring with the same broadswords. The dirt floor of the place was sticky with shed blood. Here and there, pieces of Uruks who hadn't picked it up __fast enough__ could__ be seen._

_He squared off with the bigger Uruk, mirroring the stance and how the Uruk gripped his sword. The first attack came unexpectedly, and his response was awkward and inadequate. The Uruk's blade cut deeply into __Û__nran's upper arm, leaving a gaping wo__und there. __Û__nran bellowed loudly from the shock and pain._

My entire body jerked hard, waking me up. I couldn't be sure if the Uruk's roar had woken me up, or if the pain I was _still_ feeling in my arm had done it. Frantically pushing my sleeve up, I was momentarily confused by the complete lack of blood and gore.

"Bad dream?"

It was unsettling how completely out of sorts I was. Every time I came back from a foray into fricking Isengard, there was a bit more of an adjustment, as if I was _really_ there, or heaven forbid, I was seeing through this Uruk's eyes. Although I technically wasn't; I was more like a fly on the wall, sort of floating like a disembodied presence in his wake, watching... Good god. What was _happening_ to me? And why in the damn world _was_ it happening?

"Tanith?"

I jerked back to reality with surprise. Strider was speaking to me, and I hadn't even registered it.

"Huh?"

"You appeared to be dreaming, and woke with a start," he explained. "I assumed you had a bad dream. Is this the case?"

Well, he'd be traveling with us. Likely going to see this happen a lot. And I was feeling particularly desperate for someone to tell me it was going to be all right, that it didn't mean anything, it wasn't _real_... Though that really wasn't a comforting thought either. If it wasn't real, why was my brain conjuring it up?

"Everyone else knows, so you might as well," I said quietly, hugging my knees. I quietly told him about the other dreams, and brought him up to speed with the one I just had. All the while, he sat there in silence, puffing on his pipe. I stole a glance up at him; he seemed thoughtful, but his face wasn't one that expressed many emotions.

"Frodo thinks it's _the Ring_," I said, whispering the dreaded words. Damn, five minutes with Strider and I was starting to adopt his dramatic delivery.

"Had you suffered these visions before you joined the Hobbits on their journey?" he asked. I shook my head. He puffed away some more.

"What do you think it means?" I asked quietly.

"It is difficult to say," he replied. "Perhaps Gandalf will have some insight."

Goody. We're off to see the wizard, then. Somehow I didn't feel like bursting into song, though. "Strider... what if... this Ûnran person... what if... _he_ dreams about _me_?" I asked in a small, uncertain voice.

Now Strider's brow furrowed and he leaned forward, pipe forgotten. His expression was almost scary, he was suddenly so alert. "We must hope that is not the case, or all will be lost. If a servant of the Enemy were aware of what we do, the whereabouts of the Ring, our plans, our aims..." He trailed off, shaking his head and settling back in the chair. "We must make all haste to Rivendell, then. If we do not meet Gandalf upon the road there, he will surely make for that place. It was his intent, as you well know." He shot me a slightly suspicious look, and I crumbled.

Sighing and rolling my eyes, I said, "Okay, here's the deal. I haven't even told _them_ yet. I just... didn't want to be left behind. I'm not... a friend of Gandalf's. I've never met him, actually. But I'm _not_ a servant of the Enemy!" I quickly added. "I want to see the stupid bastard destroyed as much as anyone. The thing is... I'm not from here. This world, I guess."

"You are not making sense," he growled. "You _lied_?"

"Yes, all right? I lied. I had to," I explained rather lamely. "Where I come from, this whole... thing... has already happened and is ancient history. In all honesty, I wouldn't know how to survive on my own here. My... uh... people, I guess, are sort of... beyond this. I mean, we don't use swords to fight anymore. That's ancient history, too. We don't tramp across the wilderness to get where we want to go. We jump in the car or a plane or something, and get there in minutes, not days or weeks. We don't have to hunt for our food; we go to the store and buy it. There are whole industries dedicated to making life easy and convenient for the majority of us, so we don't have to struggle to survive." It seemed that the more I talked, the less attractive my world was becoming. Like the majority were lords getting fat and lazy while the 'inferiors' did all the hard work of making our lives easier. Theirs could be a ragged existence, maybe even miserable in some cases, and the 'majority' either didn't know or didn't care. Sort of made me sick to think about it, actually.

"Anyway," I said to cover my growing embarrassment, "the upshot is that I know what's going on, and I didn't want to... miss any of it, I suppose."

"So you lied," he said sternly. Yeah, he was definitely a dad.

I nodded. "So I lied."

Strider puffed thoughtfully on his pipe and stared at me for several long moments. "Is this _also_ a custom of your people? Lying?"

Oh man. He was laying on the 'dad' pretty damn thick, and I felt like I did when I got caught swiping gum from the local convenience store on a dare. My dad used the same tactic to make me punish myself with guilt and shame. He never needed to spank us, that's for sure. Even my brother, who ended up in the Navy Seals, beating the daylights out of the Middle East through two recent wars, could be brought to heel by a look from dad.

"No," I replied sullenly. "And I don't do it if I can help it. I'm sorry. Really. I just... thought it would be... fun. Coming along and seeing... uh... history sort of... unfold."

"_Has_ it been... 'fun'?" he asked, arching an eyebrow skeptically.

"Not especially," I said, and ventured a tiny laugh. "I've had trees eating my friends, zombies stealing my clothes and trying to bury me alive, and all these stupid dreams scaring the hell out of me every night... No, not a party by any means." _And it's just beginning, too_, I thought with a shiver.

"I am concerned, I confess," Strider said thoughtfully. "If you have come here from some other place, there could be a reason for it. Perhaps your... purpose will be revealed in time. But I am truly disturbed by these 'dreams' of yours." He looked at me rather astutely. "Where would you say these events are occurring? Have you a sense of location?"

More than a sense, and I completely withered under his gaze. If I lied now, after apologizing for it before, he'd probably never trust me again. Deflating with a sigh, I said, "Yes. I know exactly where he is, and... who... his Master is."

Strider raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"He's in Isengard, and his Master is Saruman."

His eyes suddenly took up a bunch more facial real estate than was normal, and he leaned forward. I think if the pipe stem had been in his mouth, he would have bitten straight through it. "_Saruman_?" he hissed incredulously.

"Surprise," I said, shrugging.


	5. The Holy Skillet of Wraith Slaying

**The Holy Skillet of Wraith Slaying**

Strider leaned back in his chair and stared off into space. He had the look of someone who's just received the most devastatingly horrible news of his lifetime. I felt like utter crap for springing it on him like that.

"Um... I'm sorry," I faltered, feeling worse every second.

Frowning, he looked at me. "You say you know what is happening. It is all... 'ancient history.' Do you know where Gandalf is?"

"Same place," I muttered, looking away.

Closing his eyes, he seemed to crumble to dust right in front of me. "Then he has betrayed us as well."

"No!" I cried, shaking my head vigorously. "No, Gandalf hasn't! He went to see Saruman, and got captured. He's still on our side."

"Captured?" Worry and relief seemed to be having a pretty vicious fight for control over his face at the moment.

"Look," I said, calming myself, and hopefully him as well. "None of this was supposed to come out until _after_ we got to Rivendell, where _Gandalf_ would tell us everything. He'll be all right. Saruman... well, he's a tool, that's for sure."

"He was an ally, a wise counselor," Strider said hollowly, rubbing his face. "The loss of such wisdom and might to the Enemy... it is a great blow."

_Yeah, he blows all right_, I thought.

"You should get some rest," he said. "There is still much of the night left. We will see what the morrow brings."

I knew exactly what 'the morrow' would bring. Bad things, man. Bad things.

* * *

><p>Waking up to Strider throwing open the shutters on a new day, I rubbed my eyes. It occurred to me that the second half of the night was orc-free, truly a blessing. I honestly didn't want to even <em>think<em> about the possibility that Ûnran was a really _real_ Uruk and he might be seeing _me_ in _his_ dreams. It was easier to accept the idea that too many trips through _Fellowship_ along with getting thrown into the land of their birth had set my mind into a frenzy of terrified imaginings, filling in gaps left by the movies to really set my heart racing with fear. They weren't friendly critters, that was for sure. I was going to have to face them sooner or later, if I insisted on poncing around with the heroes of the war. I'd have to fight them, too. I found my eyes falling once more on Sam's pack, and the hoped-for frying pan I was sure he had concealed therein. For the first time, I had misgivings that maybe a frying pan wasn't going to keep something like Ûnran from tearing me to pieces.

I looked up when the four Hobbits and Strider opened the door to the bedchamber and gasped dramatically. I didn't need to take a peek myself to know what they were seeing. When Strider fetched Butterbur and showed _him_ the damage, the innkeeper nearly fainted.

"Never has such a thing happened in my time!" he cried. He gestured helplessly at the mess. "My good bolsters, _ruined_. What is the world coming to?"

"Really?" I said incredulously. "Flayed pillows rock your world? _Geez_." I shook my head and rolled my eyes.

Embarrassed, the innkeeper stammered awkwardly. "They could have been _you_ lot. Truly, Mr. Strider, I misjudged you, if your foresight spared these good Hobbits such a fate."

"Indeed," he replied grimly. "Please see to readying these 'good Hobbits'' ponies, won't you? We wish to be gone as quickly as we may."

"Certainly, sirs, madam," he said, bowing himself out and scurrying down the hall.

We were still in the process of packing when Butterbur burst into the room. "They're gone!" he cried, his face red with mounting panic. He looked like he would burst like a balloon if one more damn thing went wrong today. "All of them, not just Mr. Merry's!"

"Ah, well," I said with a shrug. "Now you'll all find out how much fun _I've_ been having on foot, won't you?" Frodo shot me an annoyed look.

"How are we to outpace mounted enemies on foot?" he complained.

"Shire ponies would have been no match for horses bred in the Black Land, in any case," Strider reassured us. At least, I _think_ he was trying to reassure us. My dad pulled this crap too: the old 'it wouldn't have helped at all' argument. Probably followed by 'we're better off without them,' if he was going to be channeling the parental figures I was used to.

"The paths I intend to take would only hinder the pace of the ponies," he said, and I nodded. Yup. Dad. "It is provisions that worry me. We will travel through rough country indeed, and like as not find little to sustain us. Having at least one pony to bear such a burden would aid us immeasurably, otherwise we must carry all upon our own backs. How much are you prepared to carry?"

Like typical men, the Hobbits all grunted and barked about how they could carry the inn itself if needs be, or similar boasts of strength and vigor. Whatever. I volunteered for about twenty or so pounds, because I knew exactly where my breaking point was. Okay, in all honesty, my breaking point was at ten, but I didn't want to look like a total wuss. Huh. I guess I wasn't much different from the boys, in that respect.

Anyway, long story short, Butterbur sent his lads out on a 'find a pony for the young masters' mission while I dragged Pippin along on a 'find some decent clothes for Tanith' trip to the market. As we browsed the stalls, we picked up bits and pieces of gossip, learning that not just the inn had been wiped out of mounts, but _everyone_ had lost them. Very few still had ponies or horses in the whole of Bree, it seemed. Luckily, that was the inflated commodity, not clothes, so I was able to get a few pairs of pants, couple of shirts, and two decent pairs of boots for only a few coppers each. Who knew Pippin was such a good haggler? He put my mom to shame with his bargain hunting skills. The fact that I was looking for drab and earthy, as opposed to fine and lacy, really helped.

But get this: no underwear. They had these... weird drawers that looked almost like Bermuda shorts, only skin-tight, but no bikini panties like I was used to. And don't get me started on bras. To begin with, Pippin almost sank into the ground when I brought up my need in the underpants department, turning such a flustered red I thought he was going to blow a gasket. Probably have a heart attack if he knew about scandalous things like crotchless or something. While underwear wasn't a common topic of discussion among the coed youth in my circle of friends, it wasn't an embarrassing one either. I think the guys kind of liked it when we groused about panties and bras, cup sizes and preferred fabrics, that sort of thing. Probably got a cheap thrill. Not Pippin. I picked out a few pairs of the most unsexy underthings ever made as quickly as possible to spare Pippin the aneurism, and we headed back to the inn.

It was a relief to get dressed up like one of the natives and stow my purple duds. The jammies stunk and all, but I wasn't likely to run across a coin-operated laundry anytime soon, so I just sighed and shoved them all the way to the bottom of my pack. Everyone sort of dispersed at some point while Pippin and I were shopping, presumably collecting provisions or trying to find that elusive and likely non-existent pony.

As it turned out, only Strider was searching the town top to bottom. The Hobbits, naturally, were feasting like kings in the common room. When I joined them, Frodo nodded approvingly.

"Much better," he commented, nodding toward my clothes. "You do not stand out quite as much now."

Glancing down at myself, I shrugged. Brown breeches, dark green shirt with laces pulled tight from stomach to neck, brand new, stiff leather boots that made my arches whimper... Nope, I wasn't going to stand out until I started moving, and those unfettered ladies started bouncing. I wasn't exactly Dolly Parton in the breast department, but I had enough to catch an eye or two. The shirt wasn't tight enough to keep them in check, and not loose enough for me to hunch a little and keep the girls hidden. It fit _just right_. Dammit.

After a good meal, the Hobbits all dragged out their stinky pipes and began smoking. Whenever my friends back home lit up, I usually wandered off. Thankfully, very few of them still did that; the push to discourage young adopters had been pretty effective in my group, at least. So I got up and poked around a bit. There was a group of grubby-looking men in a corner making a hell of a lot of noise, cheering and whatnot. Curious, I ambled over.

They were throwing what looked almost like dice, but I didn't see those familiar black dots on them. In fact, they had really odd shapes, and apparently the side facing up when they landed told volumes to these people. I had no clue what that might be, though.

Money was changing hands, groans from one 'thrower' brought guffaws from his opponent, the observers seemed to find the whole affair completely hilarious. Honestly, it looked like a good time was being had, and I was about to ask if they could teach me their game, when I felt a firm hand on my arm.

"What are you doing?" Strider hissed.

"I was just..."

"Come back over here," he said sternly, dragging me back to our little party. _Jesus_, he was so like my dad! I felt like saying, _hey, I'm twenty-six, dammit! Not a __child__!_ But I probably would have sounded like a petulant little girl, especially if my lower lip accidentally poked out.

"You went over there?" Merry asked incredulously when I sat heavily beside him. He looked again at the unsavory persons.

"She needs looking after, that is certain," Strider growled. "Do _not_ attempt to converse with men of their sort. You stay _with us_. I will not have you spirited away when my back is turned."

"While that is very flattering, Strider," I snarled, "I'm not completely helpless or stupid. I just wanted to know what game they're playing..."

"They play Knucklebones, and you do not understand what I am saying," he snapped. Slapping his hands on the table and leaning forward angrily, he said in a low, intense, and _very_ pissed voice, "While you know many things that are not common knowledge, you are not familiar with this place, or its folk. You trust far too easily, if you think those men would casually explain their game to you. They are more likely to..." He stopped, the deep lines of his face standing out even more than ever as he clenched his teeth and restrained himself from saying anything more on that subject. He nodded stiffly when my wide-eyed stare told him I got it. And boy, did I. I shot a look over at those men, and I swear, all of a sudden, they looked entirely like the sort who would gang-rape in a bar in the middle of the day. The shudder that ran through me almost folded me in half.

"Apologies," Strider muttered. "It is too harsh a lesson to be taught to one so young. Stay with us. It is safest, believe it or not."

I nodded contritely. The Hobbits were all looking really uncomfortable. Obviously, the possibility of something like that happening to me hadn't occurred to them, either. Sam looked positively ill, like maybe he was thinking of Rosie back in Hobbiton getting roughed up.

Completely chastened, I shadowed Strider as we went out hunting down provisions. As it turned out, the delightful specimen of manhood, Bill Ferny, supplied us with our pony at an exorbitant rate which, thankfully, Butterbur paid out of guilt for what happened at his inn. The poor beast was pathetic, even to _my_ inexperienced eye. Scraggly fur, ribs showing, hopeless expression in the big brown eyes... if Sam hadn't taken to the pony like a surrogate father, I would have been moved to adopt it myself. _All_ of us felt like total asses putting our bundles on the pony's back when we prepared for our departure later in the morning, and I think we each carried a bit more weight than we'd intended out of pity.

You would have thought we were heading up a parade right down the main street, so many people came out of their houses to see us off. Had I still been dressed in my pajamas, I don't think I could have possibly attracted more attention than we did now. I sighed with relief when we finally got far enough down the road to be out of sight of Bree. Strider turned abruptly to the side and hurried us into the wilds.

"I hope your 'short cut' doesn't end as badly as Merry's did," Pippin said warily.

"My 'cuts,' short or long, do not go wrong," Strider assured him with a laugh. "As I said, we must go by roads less traveled if we wish to avoid any trouble. It may take us a bit longer, but arriving alive is the reward for such caution."

Before I knew it, we were camping on bare ground at night and trudging through mosquito-infested swamps by day. I didn't even have sleep as a refuge from this huge pain in my ass that was happening. My dreams continued to show that damned Ûnran and his tedious training. When he wasn't getting knocked on his ass by the big nameless Uruk, he was being herded with great crowds of the beastly things from one place to another. I got to watch him eating once, and nearly spewed when I dragged myself out of the dream and into the waking world. He was actually gnawing on a forearm. A _human_ forearm, hand and all, as if it were a big turkey leg at the local Renaissance Faire. I certainly had a rich imagination; surely, if Saruman was feeding these monsters man-flesh, he'd have it prepared first. Not just throw limbs at them. Good god. How disgusting could he really be?

I wasn't particularly interested in finding out.

* * *

><p>It took us a few days to reach Weathertop. Once we left Bree, I found I was beginning to dread this, even though frequent 'are we there yets' had reassured me that Weathertop was still a ways off. Well, not anymore, it wasn't. I started to get the shakes as soon as I saw it on the horizon. Now that we were in a hollow at its foot, I wanted to crawl into a hole and cower until it was all over.<p>

Frodo, Merry, and I accompanied the Ranger to the top of the hill, and I was pretty amazed at how wrong the movie was. There were far fewer intact structures up there than I thought there would be. In fact, I would say Stonehenge looked like an enclosed arena by comparison. Strider scouted around and found some marks he was fairly sure meant Gandalf had been there. He glanced at me as if for confirmation, and I just shrugged. I had no clue. Frowning, he examined them more closely.

"Look!" Merry suddenly said, pointing over the side. Strider hit the deck, and we all caught his urgency and did likewise. Crawling to the ring of broken stonework around the rim, he peered over the side. We watched him and waited fearfully for his assessment.

"I do not know if they are our pursuers," he said cautiously, "for there is much distance between us, but it is clear they are coming this way. I suspect they will be upon us in a short time."

"How short?" I asked. I was so scared, my voice cracked like a boy's going through puberty.

"Very short," he replied grimly.

We crept back down to join the others, and Strider went to investigate some tracks Sam discovered by a little stream nearby. Meanwhile, the rest of us gathered up wood to make up a big-ass fire. I supposed if I failed with the frying pan, I could always catch their robes on fire with a torch. Or I could just hide. That was good, too. Pity there weren't many places I _could_ hide, but then, the attack happened up on the crown of the hill, right? I could just huddle in a corner of this clearing and nobody'd ever know I was there.

As seemed to be the habit in this place, nothing I knew was coming actually happened as I expected it to. We never went back up the hill; the Ringwraiths came at us right there in the more convenient dell at the foot, saving them a laborious climb, I'm sure. At least Strider didn't wander off and leave us, like he did in the movie. While everyone assumed a fighting stance with a sword in one hand and a flaming stick in the other, I rummaged wildly in Sam's pack, making a din like you wouldn't believe through his cookware. Right about when I pulled the Holy Skillet of Wraith-Slaying free, the Nazgûl attacked.

Everything happened so fast, I barely got a swing in. Merry and Pippin dove for the ground and covered their heads; Sam cleaved to Frodo's side, both of them trembling in terror. Then all at once, Frodo disappeared. The black shadows that must have been the wraiths converged on the spot where Frodo had been standing, and shoved Sam aside.

Of course, that's assuming I _could_ have gotten a swing in. I was frozen in terror, unable to move, think, or do much of anything except maybe empty my bladder, which thankfully I'd already done when we set up camp. These were brand new clothes, for heaven's sake. Strider waded into the fray, swinging the torch wildly, and there was a lot of shrieking from the creatures. Then Frodo cried out in pain, reappeared on the ground, and Sam ran to protect him.

While I didn't faint, I certainly had trouble following the action in front of me before it was all over. The wraiths ran or floated off: whichever they preferred, I guess. Then the others were carrying Frodo to the fire to look him over, and Strider took off into the darkness after the wraiths.

I slowly picked myself up off the ground and approached them a little shame-facedly. "Is he okay?" I asked. Sure, I knew he would be fine on an intellectual level. He'd have a rough time of it, yeah, but he'd make it in the end. But Frodo was becoming a friend, a real person, to me, and seeing him pale and shivering, looking up at us with that scared look you see on someone who's come face-to-face with Death and never imagined he ever would, made it really hard to just brush off what happened.

Another thing struck me hard at that moment. I was _really_ here. I wasn't watching something happen to actors who knew exactly how the whole thing was going to turn out, or had to work up the necessary emotions for filming a scene. This was their _world_. It was scary and full of nasty crap, and one of them was carrying a crap-attracter of the highest caliber. If they failed, _life sucks_ would take on a whole new meaning for _everyone_. Maybe even change the world _I_ lived in, if we were in any way connected.

Strider returned with the unsettling news that our attackers were gone without a trace, not even _tracks_ to reveal which direction they took. He barked orders to everyone, getting Pippin and Merry to heat water in their kettles, clean Frodo's wound, and keep him warm. Then he disappeared again.

I felt completely useless as they bustled around, seeing to their kinsman. Not only had I proved worthless in a fight, now I wasn't even considered effective enough to be given an order. Poor Frodo was shivering like crazy, and still had that awful frightened look on his face. Huffing with resolve, I rose and approached the little group.

"Give me his blanket," I said firmly, and Sam obeyed automatically. His brow creased as I sat next to Frodo and pulled him awkwardly into my lap. He was taller than the others, but that still put him at about the size of a seven or eight year old. I wrapped the blanket around the both of us and settled his head against my shoulder like a child. Frodo sighed and finally relaxed enough to drift off. The others stared at me with surprise and I just glared at them, daring them to say anything. Holding Frodo close, I rocked him a little for good measure, and he was soon asleep.

I didn't get a wink of sleep the rest of the night, and when the sun finally came up hours later, Strider returned. He raised an eyebrow at me, but said nothing.

"Where've you been, then?" Sam growled irritably.

"I have searched in the dark for this," Strider replied, holding up a handful of weeds. "_Athelas_. It is a healing herb, and difficult to come by." Kneeling by the fire, he ground up the leaves into a pot of water and steeped them for several minutes. The smell released was something like chamomile, and made me relax.

The Ranger managed to bathe Frodo's wound without disturbing him much, though the Hobbit fussed a little and whimpered when the scalding water touched him.

"We must make haste," Strider said quietly. "He will not be able to travel on foot. We must share the pony's burden, and put Frodo on his back."

"I thought as much," I replied. "Strider, I'm so sorry. I knew they'd attack, but I didn't think I'd... I thought I'd be more help..."

He shook his head, and actually gave me something like a kind look. "You said that in your world, our ways are strange. I suspect you do not have creatures of this sort, either. Even if you did, these in particular generate fear so profound it is crippling to the bravest of men." Glancing down at Frodo's sweating face, he said, "It would seem you provide other necessary things. While he is in pain, and no doubt suffers disturbing dreams, he is clearly comforted in your embrace." He smiled at me. "A woman's touch can sooth a man's troubled breast, and is most welcome now."

I wasn't quite sure how to take that, and just sort of nodded. He probably meant it in the nicest possible way, and part of me was... well, kind of flattered that he thought of me like that. Not flattered like I thought he was coming on to me, or anything. Given how he had irrevocably associated himself with my dad in my mind, I wasn't in the least bit interested in him anymore. It was just... kind of satisfying to be seen as nice to be around. Maybe even useful, though I wasn't sure I wanted to have a bunch of distraught Hobbits crawling all over me.

After treating Frodo's wound, Strider woke him up and put him on the pony, which Sam had at some point taken to calling 'Bill.' I had to admit that, less than a week out of Bree had certainly agreed with the animal. He had a spring in his step, a glitter in his eye, and more flesh on his ribs than he'd probably had since birth.

We resumed our trek eastward as quickly as possible, pausing only briefly for food once in awhile. By nightfall, I couldn't even make out Weathertop behind us, but then we were in pretty dense woods by then, too. Settling down to no campfire and cold fare, I gathered Frodo into my arms again and held onto him. The ride had worsened his wound and made him shivery. I wondered how many more days we'd have to go before Arwen finally found us.

With Frodo lying in my arms, his head resting on my heart (and yes, my breasts: go figure he'd calm more visibly with a face full of boobs. Men, I swear), I finally allowed myself to drift off into sleep I'd needed desperately for days. Wouldn't you know, _he_ would be lying in wait for me when my eyes closed.

_Ûnran turned a hammer over and over in his hand, unsure what its use was or how to use it if he did. An Orc dripping with sweat and smelling as if he'd been hard at work for days without so much as a refreshing splash of water raised another hammer and struck hard at a strip of metal he held on an anvil with a pair of tongs._

_"Don't know what you care," the Orc snarled, striking the metal with another resounding clang. "You lot are __**special**__. Master don't want you doin' these things. Get back to yer trainin', whelp."_

_"What do you make here?" Ûnran asked, unmoved by the Orc's grumbling._

_"Swords. Helmets. Plates for chest and limb. Shields to keep whiteskin arrows from ending you. Don't always work, though," he sneered gleefully. "You boys always find ways of gettin' yerselves killed. Master's always having to make more of yuh. If it ain't the whiteskins up top guttin' you, it's your own doin' you in. Got no sense of who or what you are, yuh filthy beggars." The Orc spat at Ûnran's feet and continued working._

_For a moment, the Uruk bristled at the insult, but buried it. Tilting his head with interest, he said, "What are we, then?"_

_"Mongrels, the lot of you," the Orc replied absently. "Mixed breeds. Yuh ain't Orcs, and yuh ain't Men. Yer somethin' in between."_

_Ûnran's brow furrowed with confusion. "Mixed? With what?"_

_Rolling his eyes with clear annoyance, the Orc stopped his work for a moment and glared at the inquisitive Uruk. "Best not to ask, whelp." Flicking his red eyes up and down __Ûnran__'s __body, he smirked. "Reckon you'll find out soon enough."_

This time, my eyes popped open and saw trees swaying slightly against a starry sky far above. Frodo's labored breathing filled the otherwise silent camp. I could see the dull orange glow of Strider's pipe across from me as he puffed away, lazy smoke curling up into the leaves. The other Hobbits were fast asleep.

"Did you see him again?" Strider asked.

"Yeah," I replied quietly, but for some reason, I didn't want to tell him any more than that. I left that conversation with an unmistakably profound sense of dread, kind of like when I looked at those men at _The Pony_ and Strider warned me what sort they were. The look on that Orc's face, sort of a promise and a threat at the same time, made me _really_ uncomfortable.


	6. Long Distance Booty Call

A/N: Non-graphic, but still there, rape scene, second dream sequence. Fair warning.

* * *

><p><strong>Long Distance Booty Call<strong>

Things sort of settled into a routine after the Incident at Weathertop: get up at dawn, tramp clumsily through the underbrush for hours, have a snack, complain loudly about midges and insects, make camp, bitch about the roots or rocks in my back, watch an Orc training to be even nastier than he was when he came out of the ground, wake up with a start, whimper, go back to sleep, get up at the crack of frickin' dawn _again_... The only one having a good time was Bill the Pony, probably because life in Bill Ferny's stable sucked harder than a Kardashian sister.

After almost a week of this, Strider gave us an update on progress, declaring we'd reached the River Hoarwell... and other stuff. I got hung up on the name, and did some cathartic mental riffing for awhile that ended with me snorting indelicately to keep from giggling too loudly. _How's your whore? My whore's well, how's yours? Get nothin' but trouble from my whore._ I wondered if there was a Bitch-owes-me-money River somewhere in the wilderness...

Probably not a good idea asking Strider about that.

Eventually, we reached what he called the Last Bridge, and Strider made us hide while he checked the layout. Frodo wasn't looking so good, and I was wondering where the hell Arwen had gotten to. Wasn't she supposed to come sneaking up on us at some point? Then again, we hadn't made it to the big stone trolls yet. Who knew we'd have to hike for days first? Apparently nobody gave Peter Jackson _that _memo. Damn misleading, his movies. So far I'd been unprepared for almost everything. I decided if I ever got home in one piece, a furious storm of Tweets was going out on the subject.

Strider called us over when he decided there weren't any Black Riders lurking in the shadows, and showed us a little jewel he picked up. How nice for him. That brought up another issue; not since the barrow downs had I seen anything like treasure. Now, I did my fair share of geeky _Dungeons and Dragons_ playing in college. What else are you gonna do on a Saturday night if you've decided you aren't busting your hymen on some hormone-crazed frat boy you barely know? Obvious, right? Hang out with the guys who'd much rather roll up a character than roll around with a girl. So anyway, every time there was a battle in the game, there was treasure. Even if you were wandering around in the wilderness, you'd find a cave with goodies in it, or a randomly placed chest with long-forgotten loot. Or maybe that was just the gamers I hung out with. I supposed that in the absence of corpses to rifle, as was the case with the wraiths, there hadn't been much opportunity for picking up stuff. Maybe in Moria...

Ah crap. I'd forgotten about Moria. I didn't even want to _think_ about that. Goblins and Orcs and cave trolls, oh my. I probably _would_ get in a fight with Sam over the frying pan. Yeah... a frying pan against a cave troll. That'll work. I'm gonna die.

Once over the bridge, we entered a bit of countryside that was different. We went from scrubby grasses to rolling hills and forests. Quite pretty, actually. It seemed peaceful enough to me, though my companions were muttering about evil men and 'the shadow of Angmar.' Whatever. Birds were singing and the sun was shining. That said 'danger-free' to me.

Isn't it always the way, when you decide life is starting to get good, it starts raining? And this wasn't one of your piddly little spitting rains, either. This was buckets dumped on your head kind of rain. If Frodo wasn't praying for death before, he sure as hell was now, and I was right there with him. Not even Strider could light a fire in this, and he was practically the God of All Things Woodsy.

Setting up camp in the shadow of a rocky outcropping, we huddled in a cave... well, depression, actually. There wasn't much depth to it, so our backs were dry-ish, but our feet were soaked. It was miserable. I held Frodo in my arms again, but he was shivering so badly I wasn't sure I could help him anymore. Every blanket we had was wrapped around the two of us. I was at a loss what to do next. Some comfort I was. The Cleavage of Cure Serious Wounds wasn't getting the job done anymore.

So I decided to sing to him. The trick was trying to remember a song that didn't involve loud guitars or screaming. Not that my iPod was flooded with that sort of stuff. But soft, gentle songs that I liked tended to be depressing, and that probably wouldn't help matters. It took a bit of thought. And without said iPod... well, we do the best we can, right?

_I'm so tired of being here  
>Suppressed by all my childish fears...<em>

As I sang, the other Hobbits first looked at me like I'd grown a second head, then they seemed to figure out that I wasn't having some sort of attack and settled down. Strider, however, stared at me with shock. Yeah, dude, this is what singing's all about. You can keep your Shatner-esque talking song about Barry and Tinfoil.

_When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears  
>When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears<em>

Frodo seemed to relax a bit against my chest, with my voice soft in his ear. I rubbed his back and stroked his hair as well. I'd seen cousins with kids about his size, comforting them when they were sad or hurt. It wasn't too difficult. But my brow furrowed when I reached this point of the song:

_Your face it haunts  
>My once pleasant dreams<em>

I almost lost the thread. The line made me think of those whacked out dreams of mine, replete with Orcs, Orcs, and more Orcs. With a smidgen of Orcs thrown in for good measure. My song sort of petered out on its own as I wondered once again why I was having those dreams. I'd seen _Fellowship_ and _Two Towers_ countless times; I had the cast of Uruk-hai memorized pretty well. This guy I kept seeing wasn't one of those with a speaking part. Was he a background player I subconsciously noted and filed away for future reference, should I have a need for a particularly scary-looking night terrorist? I really had no idea.

Of course, I would have appreciated a change to the scenery once in awhile. If my brain was bent on throwing an Orc up for entertainment every night, the least it could do was show him doing something else besides sparring. Maybe go grocery shopping with his roommates or something.

Dearest wishes will sometimes yield results, I found that night. When I drifted off to sleep, that change of pace I craved was right there waiting for me.

_Something was different, a current of agitation running through the training ground. __Û__nran__'s sparring partner kept halting and pitching his nose in the air, grimacing with distaste._

_"What is it?"_

_The larger Uruk snorted as if to clear his nostrils of the stench. "Man-flesh," he snarled. "Master's dogs from Dunland. His spies bring news."_

_Û__nran__ tested the air with a sniff. He didn't much like it either._

_"Remember that," the Uruk told him, pointing at his own nose. "You smell that when you're up top, you got two choices: kill what's making it, or run like you got Master's whips on your heels."_

_"Why kill it?" __Û__nran__ asked curiously. He was still young, and the larger Uruk shook his head._

_"They are enemy to us," he replied. "Hate us. Fear us. Kill us, given a chance. Don't give'em that chance."_

_Contemplating this new information, __Û__nran frowned and looked away for a moment. "All of them? We must kill them all?"_

_The Uruk nodded. "Better them than us, eh?"_

Not exactly what I was looking for. I would have been happier with performing a speech in front of my whole high school graduating class dressed only in my underpants, but alas, I'd exhausted _that_ stockpile of embarrassingly stupid dreams years ago.

But that wasn't all. I gradually found sleep again after a little while, and for the first time since that blasted Ûnran started showing up every night, I had _two_ visitations. The second one wasn't nearly as benign as the first.

_"I hear you been picked," another Uruk said as they hung their swords on the weapon rack, training done for the day. "Master'll be by to look you over before sending you down."_

_"Don't wanna go," __Û__nran snarled in an undertone. He did not know this one well, had not spoken with him at length before. "Don't understand what is expected of me. What I gotta do."_

_The Uruk's yellow eyes flicked up and down __Û__nran's body for a moment before he answered. "Ain't hard, what you gotta do. I could show you. If you're willing."_

_"Yes," __Û__nran__ shrugged and nodded. "Show me."_

_A slight smile curled the Uruk's mouth, showing his jagged teeth. __Û__nran__'s expression faltered, and he frowned uncertainly._

_Quicker than thought, the larger Uruk grabbed __Û__nran's arm and spun him, then slammed him into the rock wall __hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Cheek and chest pressed against the ragged stone, one arm bent painfully up his back, the young Uruk could do nothing as his attacker tore his leather breeches open down the center seam._

_"This ain't exactly what you gotta do," the Uruk __growled in his ear as he kicked __Û__nran__'s feet a bit farther apart. "Not for Master, anyway. This you'll do for me__, my little __**globatish**__. And any I send your way."_

_Panic and fear nearly froze him, but the sudden tearing pain sent __Û__nran into a desperate frenzy. He barely noted the agony in his shoulder as he fought for freedom. Pushing against the wall with his one free arm, __Û__nran violently disengaged from the Uruk's assault and, roaring with fury, tore into him with teeth and claws. He didn't even realize the Uruk was dead until the pain was so great he could barely stand it._

_Dropping clumsily to the floor, he held his injured arm against his chest and stared at the corpse. His face twitched and his eyes blinked rapidly. This was his first kill. One of his own kind. His brow furrowed and his face crumpled as he squeezed his eyes shut._

I actually yelled out loud when I woke up that time. Strider was right there in moments, easing Frodo out of my lap and getting a hold of me. My eyes were dim with tears and I could not shut _up_.

"Oh my god, Strider," I whispered in horror. My ass hurt. Good god, my _ass_ hurt!

"What is it? Did you see the beast again?"

Nodding, I tried desperately to gather myself. What I just saw was really kicking it up a notch from the point it was several days ago, when the worst thing going on was Ûnran enjoying a succulently roasted forearm. What was _wrong_ with me? Oh sure, guy friends of mine joked about things like this all the time, mostly because they were about as straight-laced as you could get, with absolutely no chance of ever being incarcerated and made someone's bitch in their futures. They thought it was amusing as hell happening to convicted criminals. Not quite so chuckle-worthy when it was someone you knew. Not funny at all if it was _you_. How could I have dredged up something so foul, so repellent...

Son of a bitch, but I actually felt sorry for that Orc. Felt like cheering because he totally pwned the bastard. Talk about sympathy for the devil.

Relating the dreams to Strider (_very_ broad terms for the second one; worldly wise he might be, but something told me that male on male rape wasn't a common topic of conversation for the Ranger), I remembered what was said before the attack occurred. Something about Ûnran being chosen for something. Something that was similar to what he was subsequently 'shown'...

I shuddered hard on the thought. My mind was clearly heading down the darkest paths imaginable, likely working through all of those rape fears women living alone in the big city tend to have. It's one thing to be back home in familiar territory, knowing the signs to look for, the places to be wary in, the look of men who seem more likely to attack you than others... quite another to be in a strange place, where the familiar rules are twisted and wrong, and now it's not _men_ – nice, familiar, easily-understood _men_ – stalking you for a piece of ass, it's a bunch of monsters who smell really bad and have claws and teeth and no particular preference for who or what their victim is...

"This is... unsettling," Strider ventured awkwardly after I'd finished. I had to put my hand on my heart to calm myself. I have no idea why that gesture worked, but it seemed to. Taking deep breaths, I eventually tapered off to occasional shakes.

He'd looked so frightened. Confused. Like he didn't know what was happening to him, or why. He only knew he didn't like it, and _really_ didn't like it when it started to hurt. I swore he was ready to cry when I woke up.

Was I just as naïve and helpless? Did they actually _do_ those things, or was I making crap up to scare myself?

"Are you all right?"

I glanced up at Strider, but couldn't nod or respond. My arms were around my mid-section like I was trying to hold my dinner down, keep it from flying up and out. It took more than the normal effort to say a word. "What is happening to me, Strider?" I whispered. I hadn't told him the uncomfortable fact that I felt a phantom ache in my backside, as if _I'd_ been the victim.

"I do not know," he replied, worry creasing his forehead. "They are becoming more... repellent. That does not bode well."

My chin quivered a little as I fought off a crying jag. "I think I'm going crazy. I almost wish it was real. That _he_ was real, just so I wouldn't have to admit that disgusting crap like this even exists in my head." Shuddering violently, I shook my head quickly. "No. If he's real, then... then he's probably watching _me_. Oh god, Strider, I'll never pee again."

"It is likely little comfort," he said carefully, "but I think what you are seeing... is not real. It _cannot_ be real. We have spoken aloud of our location, and our destination, and yet no Orc band has intercepted us. There is no chance that an Orc would hold such information in secret. It is not in their nature to disobey their masters. His punishment for such treachery would be swift and final." Shifting uncomfortably, he added in an undertone, "I do not think, from what you have said, that Saruman would show him mercy, no matter that he was once counted among the Wise."

"I wish I would stop dreaming about him," I said quietly, but I knew it wasn't true. Now I was worried. Almost like he _was_ real. Call it accident-gawker curiosity, but I wanted to know what my imagination would do to him after this. It was obvious now that I couldn't just randomly view whatever movie in my brain was firing off; I had to go to the theater and watch the serial unfold, like everybody else. Owning said theater didn't get me VIP access.

"Perhaps Gandalf will have answers," he said reassuringly. "Can you sleep?"

Snorting, I nodded. "I never have trouble _getting_ there, it's the reception that sucks. I don't get a good rest, I'm always on edge, then I get woken up so much... Strider, I'm exhausted. I don't suppose you know some herb or root or something I can chew on that'll knock me into oblivion, do you?"

He chuckled a little. "I do, but you would not like it. As it is, you have the ability to _waken_ when your dreams are too disturbing to watch any longer. Were you affected by such plants as I know of, you would be paralyzed and helpless, forced to watch... who knows what depravity your fears see fit to conjure."

Nodding in concession to his point, I sighed deeply. Maybe if I was safely in Rivendell... maybe my brain would be calm enough to forget for awhile... give it a rest... show me, I don't know, Legolas bathing or something. Hell, I'd take _that_ over Orcs raping each other, and I never really liked Orlando's Elf. Too girly. I like my boys rough and tumbly.

By morning, I was a tiny bit more rested. No more dreams assailed me, so I felt if not refreshed, at least a bit less grouchy. Walking beside the pony, I kept a hand on Frodo's swaying form. My head was actually hurting, my brow had been creased with worry for so long. I knew Strider would take us where we needed to go, and get us there in one piece, but we were trudging through some really sucky territory to get there. Hills and switchbacks, ruts and ravines, undergrowth so thick you could almost walk on it... There wasn't a spare inch of exposed skin that wasn't scratched on anyone.

At one point, Pippin was ahead of us a bit and came trotting back to report a path ahead. _Good_, I thought, _about time_. Now maybe Bill wouldn't waddle uncertainly on the rough terrain so much, and Frodo wouldn't list to the side and nearly topple every chance he got. What we found utterly floored me.

Now _here_ was something my gaming buddies would have stocked with treasure! The path was overgrown and wound around the trees, but eventually took us to a cliff face in which a weathered door hung loosely from a single rusty hinge. The desire to investigate the little cave beyond the door and hopefully add to my woefully pathetic Middle Earth Treasures Collection (Act now! These prices won't last!) warred with that maternal thing that kept me clinging to Frodo, keeping him safely on the pony. Mom won in the end, and I watched Strider, Sam and Merry check the place out.

"I don't like the look of it at all," Pippin muttered. Glancing up at Frodo's ashen face, he whispered to me, "Do you think... he'll be all right?"

"Sure," I said, smiling and nodding firmly. "It's just a flesh wound, right?"

The Hobbit's forehead creased uncertainly but he said nothing more. The investigators were coming out.

"It is a troll-hole, most certainly," Strider reported, "but long abandoned. I think the owners have not been by in many years."

"Still, I reckon we'd better be watchful," Sam said, fingering the hilt of his swagger. Okay, call it what you want. The Hobbits were too small for swords, so they used daggers, which were plenty big enough to be called swords in their hands. So they're swaggers.

We moved on down the path, and descended a slope. Merry and Pippin got ahead of the rest of us, but didn't stay that way. Before long, both of them came running back up to us, panting and completely unnerved.

"Trolls, Strider!" Pippin cried. "In a clearing below. We could see them between the tree trunks. They are very large!"

Strider and I exchanged a look, then he picked up a stick and headed down the path. "Let us have a look, then."

I thought that was pretty crappy of him. All the Hobbits, with the exception of Frodo, were beside themselves with fear. If I hadn't known what was down there, I might have left a trail of piss behind me. Maybe I hadn't seen _The __Hobbit_ (winter movie release coming up! And I was going to freaking _miss it_! Ah man!), but I remembered the wisely-placed scene of Bilbo telling those wide-eyed, utterly adorable Hobbit kids the story of how the trolls were turned to stone.

We all had a good laugh once the much _bigger_ wide-eyed Hobbit kids realized these trolls had long since stopped being a nuisance to anyone. Even Frodo looked a little bit more rosy-cheeked. As if to further lighten the dreary mood that had settled on us since Weathertop, Sam stood up and sang us one of his own compositions about a hard-assed troll that got us all rolling.

Still giggling about poor old Tom and his lamed foot, we moved on. I really thought we'd be spending the night there, but it was way too early to be setting up camp. There was plenty of daylight left, which should have been the dead giveaway that the trolls weren't alive, but I suppose even the locals are to be forgiven for not knowing troll biology like the back of their hand. I wouldn't have made the connection without cheating myself, and probably would have stood there dumbly with a puddle forming under my feet.

It wasn't until late, when we were eying the side of the road for a good camping spot, that we heard hoofbeats approaching. Everyone froze and we nearly crapped our drawers. Okay, Strider didn't. He was much more savvy about the wilds than we were and kept his cool. Practically nipping at our heels like a scruffy border collie, he urged us into the underbrush up a slight incline next to the road. Then we all sat and waited, trying not to breathe too loudly.

Wait a second. Was I hearing _bells_?

After a few minutes of shaking like leaves, we saw a figure come riding up from the direction we had come. _About damn time, Arwen_, I thought, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

Strider seemed to recognize the person right away, and sprang from our hiding place like a jack rabbit. I grinned to myself; some snogging was on the way. He wasn't such a bad sort, if a little on the dramatic side. Arwen was welcome to him. She immediately alighted from the white horse and ran to greet Strider happily.

Hold on there. Blond? Wasn't Arwen a brunette? My brow furrowed.

Gesturing for us to join him, Strider introduced this mysterious blond person. "This is Glorfindel who dwells in the house of Elrond."

Well, how do you like that? Come on, Jackson! Did _anything_ in your movies really happen in the story? Jesus! Grumbling to myself, I descended in the Hobbits' wake, still spotting Frodo to keep him on the pony. On closer inspection, I decided I should be forgiven for thinking this Elf was a girl. Orlando still had that semi-manly jawline going for him. This guy was _pretty_. Like Goldberry kind of pretty. It made me feel a tad uncomfortable, I had to admit.

There was much talk and banter and other blathering. Evidently they were expecting us in Rivendell because of some Elves Frodo and the gang met on the way to Crick-thingy. No idea what that was all about. As far as I knew, they just saw them from a distance and didn't actually talk to anyone. In any case, there was still no sign of Gandalf before Glor... something set out to find us.

At some point, Frodo seemed to worsen by leaps and bounds and almost fell off of Bill. Glor... something caught him and looked him over.

"My master is too sick to ride through the night!" Sam protested. "He needs rest."

Wait, what? We're not camping? What the...?

"Hey, what's this about?" I joined in crossly. Yes, I actually had boots on, and after a couple of weeks walking in them they were pretty well broken in, but come _on_.

Glor... thing seemed to finally notice me, and his expression turned kind and chivalrous. Great. Girls are to be coddled. I get it. "His wound is beyond my skill to heal, and was made by a cursed blade. Even now he begins to fade. We must make all haste to the house of Elrond. Only there may his hurts be tended properly."

Okay, that much I knew. Nodding grudgingly, I shrugged it off. Glor... what the hell was his name again? The Elf put Frodo up on his own horse and adjusted the stirrups. Then we pressed on through the moonless night.

Yeah. Forced marching through the night. I thought I was going to drop into a heap by the time dawn came and the cruel, nasty Elfses let us have a break. He didn't seem to realize that I barely got any rest when I _was_ asleep. Pretty soon I'd be stumbling stupidly and running into trees. Given the go ahead to take a nap, I went down like a ton of bricks in the heather.

_Ûnran's sword flashed through the air to connect with the larger Uruk's blade with a loud, arm-jarring clang. His sparring partner grunted and nodded with approval._

"_Better," he growled, shaking feeling back into his arm. "Took a round in your backside to make you fight like you mean it, I see."_

_The young Uruk's arm dropped lifelessly, and he looked at his partner as if stricken. "How d'you know about that?"_

_He shrugged. "Happens to all. Youngest ones, usually. Too stupid to know what's what. Easy prey."_

"_Zûrash," Ûnran muttered, his head bowed, "I killed..."_

"_That ain't no secret," Zûrash replied. "'s'what you gotta do, if you don't want a cock up your ass every minute 'round here."_

"_Will Master... punish me?" the younger Uruk asked cautiously._

_Zûrash snorted and curled his lip bitterly. "Master don't care what we do. We could fuck each other bloody every day, kill a dozen an hour just cause we feel like it, he wouldn't care. Long as we stay strong, do our part when it's time to fight... That's all that matters to him."_

"_But... we are one less now..."_

"_Don't matter. He'll make more." Then Zûrash grinned. "Heard you're headed for the pits. You'll make up for that one you killed soon enough."_

Thank goodness Glor-whatever woke us up for another death march. We were getting closer to Rivendell, according to our guides. Gandalf better be there waiting for us. I wanted answers, dammit.

* * *

><p>Song lyric from "My Immortal" by Evanescence<p>

_globatish_ – literally 'container of filth' – established in my other fic, "Misfire of Global Proportions," as the common term in Isengard applied to an Uruk used by the others as the 'receiver' of anal intercourse. Typically, this is non-consensual. Also as a point of interest, in my interpretation of 'life in Isengard,' Saruman had no use for female Uruk-hai, as subsequent chapters will show.


	7. Herbert Will be Played by: Saruman!

**And the Part of Herbert Will be Played by... Saruman!**

It was well into the morning when Glorfindel woke us up, gave us a sip of pick-me-up booze or something, and herded us all back on the road. Maybe it wasn't an energy drink from the local convenience store, but it kept us going for miles and miles.

You go non-stop on a sugar high for too long, though, and you're bound to crash sooner or later. Right about when the sun was going down, it hit us like a ton of bricks. Well, me and the Hobbits mostly. Strider was like Stamina Man, just missing the cape and spandex. Glor-no-fun-del seemed to forget every few minutes that we weren't super duper Elves with godlike constitutions, but when it wasn't just Frodo looking ready to hurl, he finally 'graced' us with a break.

Assuming a spooning position with Frodo, I bundled us up in a blanket and tried to still my mind enough for sleep, humming quietly in his ear to settle him and ease the shivering a bit. I had no confidence that the night would pass Orc-free, but maybe I could get a bit of shut-eye before the floor show started.

If I thought my brain had exhausted its store of embarrassing scenes, I was sadly mistaken.

_Ûnran fidgeted nervously in an alcove similar to where he was bathed before. He'd been stripped for this, and wasn't comfortable at all. Perhaps because of the assault, he glowered at the smaller Orcs bustling about, tending one newborn Uruk after another. If they passed too close to his niche, he growled at them, curling his lip and baring his teeth. None came within reach of his claws._

_A few minutes passed, then the White One entered, followed by the Pitmaster looking smug and superior in the Master's wake. Ûnran hadn't seen the White One for weeks, and hastily assumed what he hoped was the proper submissive posture, lowering his head and staring at his clawed feet. He saw the pristine white robes swish to a halt directly in front of him, but dared not look up._

_His choice was made for him, however, as long, spindly fingers gripped his chin and forced him to do so. The White One's keen eyes scrutinized him coldly, tilting his head first to one side, then the other, staring intently into the Uruk's yellow eyes._

_"Open your mouth," he commanded, and Ûnran obeyed without thinking. The Master's cold fingers delved inside and felt his teeth, his tongue... The Uruk was completely baffled by this examination._

_Removing his fingers from Ûnran's mouth with a grimace of disgust, the White One wiped them on a cloth supplied by the smirking Pitmaster behind him._

_"Impressive," the White One said in a voice that inspired no sense of accomplishment or pride in Ûnran. "What of his tolerances? Can he bear sunlight?"_

_"Don't know 'bout that, Master," the Pitmaster replied thoughtfully, stroking his rough chin. "Ain't been up top yet, see. But the female what whelped'im ain't dropped one yet that don't bear it. Stands to reason he would, don't it?"_

_The White One gave the Orc a withering look, as if even the most logical conclusion was suddenly suspect considering the source. "I will want him tested as soon as may be. You say he is intelligent?"_

_"Smart enough, I suppose," the Pitmaster shrugged. "Takin' to his lessons quick. Got all his limbs, you see." The Orc cackled loudly._

_"Indeed," the Master said humorlessly. "He will serve, assuming he is capable. We shall soon see..."_

_Ûnran leaped backwards and hit the wall with great force when he felt those cold fingers touch his privates. Breath quickening in instant fear, he raised his claws and stepped forward with a roar, prepared to do battle. The Pitmaster needed no urging from their Master in addressing this unthinkable transgression. Pushing the Uruk back, he roughly flattened Ûnran against the wall with a hand squeezing his throat._

_"That is your **Master**, stupid whelp," the Orc hissed in Ûnran's ear. "You don't **say **nothin', you don't **do **nothin' if he wants to touch you, understand? He owns every inch of you. He wants to grab your cock, you **let**'im. He wants to yank it til it spews, you **let**'im." Stepping back, the Orc smirked at Ûnran's shocked face. "You ain't no use if you don't make enough. So let him see what you got."_

_The White One nodded curtly to the Pitmaster, and once more took hold of Ûnran. The Uruk_ _stood rigid, fists clenching impotently at his sides, eyes fixed on a point well beyond what was being done to him. He'd never even touched himself. He had no idea what was happening to his body, why this should feel pleasant and repellent at the same time. His eyes flicked to his Master's uncertainly, only to be struck violently in the face by the Pitmaster._

_"Yuh don' look at the Master when he's at it!" the Orc snarled. "Ain't gonna be long, yuh worthless cur. Don't take but a minute to bring **you** lot around." Snorting and cackling at his own private joke, the Pitmaster folded his arms over his chest and leered._

My body shot into a sitting position like I was a catapult set loose. I almost collapsed with relief when I realized I was back in... wherever the hell Glorfindel let us drop like sacks of sweaty, half-dead potatoes. Checking to make sure Frodo still slept, I hastily rose and padded quietly to our packs.

The waterskin I dug up had ice cold water in it, but I didn't care. I knew I wasn't washing off _actual_ filth from my hands and face, but good god that was far and away the most disgusting thing I'd ever witnessed. I kept violently shuddering as snippets flashed up, until I was shaking like a dog with distemper. What I wouldn't give for a steaming hot bath right now, because I felt dirty just from watching it, let alone having to admit it was my own head having a sadistic field day with me.

I couldn't get the image of Ûnran's stricken face out of my mind. Of him being told he had no rights to his own body. I supposed that answered the question of just how repulsive could Saruman be. Maybe he didn't look like _he_ was getting his jollies either, but the fact remained that he molested a three-week-old. Granted, a three-week-old that could probably kick his ass in a fair fight, but nonetheless...

Wincing, I shook my head. No. It was _not _real. I was obviously taking cast members and assigning them particular roles based on my fears and... stuff... Damn, if only I'd actually cracked open the text book for that psych class instead of copying off my smart roommate...

"Is something amiss?"

I nearly jumped out of my shorts and straight up a tree. Clutching my heart, I rounded on that infuriating Elf and scowled as meanly as I could. "Don't _do_ that! Announce yourself, next time! Jesus!"

"Apologies," he said sincerely, bowing. "You seem anxious. Is it your dreams?"

Stiffening, I looked wide-eyed at him. "Uh... whattayou know about my dreams?"

"Only what Aragorn has told," he replied mildly. "Your fears and uncertainties seem manifested into... an Orc." Tiny creases appeared around his nose, like he was fighting valiantly not to look outwardly revolted and only partially succeeding.

Nodding, I sank to the ground and hugged my knees. Glorfindel nearly floated down across from me. Damn, Elves were so graceful it was sickening.

"It's... uh... pretty scary," I ventured. "I feel like there's this whole other world in my head. I can't see it any other time, except when I can't _not_ see it, you know?"

"When you are helpless," he offered. "There is much in this world that you do not understand, and such unfamiliarity can be frightening. Perhaps when we reach Rivendell, and threats are held at bay for a time, your... Orc... will fade."

Why didn't that assessment fill me with relief? Likely because I didn't believe it for a second. But I nodded dutifully and went back to Frodo. Settling in once more, I sighed with resignation and closed my eyes.

* * *

><p>I thought I was still asleep when I woke up walking. Apparently, Rivendell was about as far away from Bree as New York was from L.A. Felt like it, anyway. My new boots had lost their shine, and a hell of a lot of sole. I'd worn all my new clothes at least twice, and was now so damn dirty and sweaty I gave up digging hopelessly in my pack for clean ones that I knew weren't there. Everyone was pretty dejected-looking, not to mention <em>filthy<em>. Oh man, we stunk. Grown men who hadn't washed in weeks, and a woman who was within a day or so of having an even stinkier visitation from her monthly guest...

Joined by an Elf who looked like he'd just stepped out of a full-service spa. Fucker.

I wasn't particularly attentive, as usual, when we entered this narrow defile with very high reddish rock walls, but I sure perked up when our own footsteps echoed so much we thought we had an army following us. Not to mention the fact that the cliffs channeled a piercing cold wind between them that bit down through every layer of clothes, and several striations of grime. I shook so much, had I been a car, my transmission would have fallen out.

It all happened so fast, once we were clear of the defile. Down below us, about a mile away, was the river Strider had been aiming for over the past several days. I was about to praise god on my knees because a) river means bath, and b) _this_ river means we're almost to Rivendell. Then the wind at our backs picked up and literally shrieked out of the defile.

"Fly!" Glorfindel suddenly yelled. "The enemy is upon us!"

Without questioning 'which enemy' or 'how close is _upon_, exactly' or any of a million questions that ran through my mind in a jumble, I took off down the slope, three Hobbits and an hysterical pony at a dead run around me. The Elf's horse outpaced us quickly, with Frodo clinging for dear life to its back. I glanced behind us to see Strider and Glorfindel bringing up the rear... and behind them, five Black Riders.

I was utterly transfixed for a moment, distracted enough by the terrifying sight not to be looking where I was going. I literally hit a wall of horseflesh and bounced back on my ass. Frodo had stopped, and turned _back_ toward the threat!

"Shit, Frodo, move!" I screamed, grabbing the horse's reins and yanking its head around.

"Ride on!" the Elf cried. He followed this unheeded command with a stream of Elfin... Elfish... whatever... and his horse turned tail, ignoring its stupid-ass rider and sprinting for the river. I gave the horse a slap on the rump for good measure.

Then I was running flat out, as if _I_ had the Ring in my pocket. On either side of me, those gigantic, night-black horses of the Nazgûl rode snorting and steaming by. I was only surrounded for a few seconds, then they were past. A scream like I'd never heard before came from them, sort of like a bird of prey in the desert or something, only magnified and almost... _intelligent_-sounding. Off to our left, another pack of them came out of hiding, trying to cut across the distance and head Frodo off before he reached the river.

It was about at that point that my legs gave out completely, pitching me face down in the churned-up turf. It was utterly hopeless, I knew. Frodo wouldn't make it, he'd be dead before he got there, it was all my fault for invading this world and upsetting the balance, everyone was going to die because I was useless, and I was _so_ sorry, so _very_ sorry... I lay there and cried like a baby.

For about two seconds, then Strider was there, yanking me up by the back of my shirt, and I was running again. Glorfindel's horse was too far ahead for us to make it out clearly, and the Black Riders were just dark smudges as well, but still we ran like we could make a damn bit of difference.

The Nazgûl acted like cats with a new mouse to play with. When we reached the river, a few of them had started to cross slowly, as if drawing out the terror of their presence. Frodo sat on the white horse on the opposite bank.

"Swiftly now, build a fire!" Glorfindel ordered, gathering up twigs, dried grasses, anything he could find in a nearby hollow. We all pitched in, though Sam looked to me like he was torn between obeying the Elf and rushing to his master's defense. Thank goodness for intensive Boy Scout training or whatever Strider had in his background, because he had a flame going in a heartbeat. Lighting the ends of several thick pieces of wood, he directed us to the riverbank.

There was a roar as the river reared up like a pissed off cat and came rushing in a remarkably deep wave down on the Riders. I didn't know what the hell was going through my mind, but it wasn't self-preservation as I ran _at_ the Nazgûl from behind with a stick on fire. I even hooted and hollered to spook the horses. The combined stress of their buddies getting drowned along with a torch-waving mob behind them convinced the horses on the shore that flight was more attractive at the moment than fight. The lot of them leaped into the flood waters in spite of the best efforts of their Riders, and were swept away.

Every bit like a big monster that has had its snack and retreated for a well-deserved nap, the river receded back to a benign trickle. I sank to the ground.

Strider and the Hobbits ran across to where Frodo had slipped off the horse's back and sprawled on the bank. I tried not to jump a mile when I felt Glorfindel's hand on my shoulder.

"I wonder that you do not think yourself brave," he murmured. "Not many would charge a Ringwraith."

"Meh," I managed. "Everyone else was doing it. Didn't wanna be left out again." Then I fell face down on the ground and died.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, I couldn't just wake up already warm and comfortable in a nice Rivendell bed. No, I was among the poor bastards who still had a few miles to cover with a now completely dead weight Ringbearer. I wished I could be stoic about it, and embrace what I knew to be the truth: he was going to be healed, this whole nightmare would end soon, he'd be a happy smiling Hobbit in no time... Funny how that's easy when you're watching a movie, not so much when it's your friend draped over the back of a horse, pale as a corpse, breath rattling in his chest, feebly muttering incoherent words that sound like prayers...<p>

I could barely see the path ahead, I was crying so much. What a wimpy loser.

About halfway there, a group of Elves showed up and guided us the rest of the way. I stumbled in a fog down the pathways, the adrenaline crash well underway. Too little sleep, probably too little food, high stress, then that last mad dash to the ford... If I never woke up again, I wouldn't really be all that upset about it.

When we reached what they referred to as the Last Homely House (it was beautiful; why they'd call it 'homely' was beyond me), I cried even harder, but with relief this time. There was going to be a bath in there, I was sure of it. Frodo was spirited away almost immediately by very grim and worried Elves, and we were escorted to rooms that had been prepared for us.

And the mattress was _just right_. Sweet! Good old Tom must have phoned ahead.

I decided I really liked Elves when I saw the tub in my room. It was one of those deep, claw footed affairs, and the water was steaming. Aaaaaahhhhhh...

Maybe I didn't turn the water black by washing in it, but it sure wasn't pure by the time I was finished. You certainly wouldn't want to drink it. I lay back in it for so long I got all puckery, but who gave a crap? It literally took me five thorough scrubbings to get my hair back to its normal shade of light brown. And for the first time since arriving in Middle Earth, I had a _mirror._

Good... god. I must have lost twenty pounds. Looking at my naked reflection, I turned from side to side and just... wow. I wasn't exactly a supermodel back home, but I wasn't a total chub, either. Yeah, I could stand to lose a few, but who couldn't, right? Not in McDonald's and Twinkies Land. Where I didn't exactly have a Rubinesque form, I _did_ have... what, love handles? Is that the right word? Well, them handles was _gone_. Ain't nobody gettin' a grip on _me_. But the most surprising of all was _where_ I lost the pounds. Not just in the waist and hips, mind you. I probably went down a cup size on top of it. What a relief, let me tell you. Those Ds went down to a more modest and manageable C at least. It was like having a medicine ball unstrapped from your neck. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but honestly. Heavy breasts are _no_ fun to haul around. Maybe now they wouldn't drag the ground when I reached my fifties.

My face had undergone some changes, too. I'd always had a sort of squarish face, but now my cheeks were a bit sunken in, showing actual cheek_bones_. Wow. Didn't know I had _those_. I suppose I had a cute little nose; certainly not something I'd beg daddy for a birthday surgery to correct. I actually knew girls who spent their sweet 16s wearing the suddenly fashionable inch-thick gauze mask. Idiots.

Sighing, I finally quit admiring my svelte new body and got dressed. Those wonderful hosts of ours provided a god damned _dress,_ even though my regular, albeit _really_ stinky attire should have provided the necessary clues as to my preferences. Fine. Whatever. Gratitude... let's pretend we have some, shall we?

I wanted to go to sleep, _really_ wanted to just close my eyes and drift away, but being in frickin' _Rivendell_ was too exciting to let go of until morning. Plus, if I was awake, I wouldn't see orcs getting raped, molested, or bathed, right? Sure, I felt safe and secure in this place, and likely that would be reflected in my dreams. I'd probably seen the last of Ûnran for awhile. It was probably okay to go to sleep again.

Nope. Not really convinced. So I wandered the halls, getting hopelessly lost and having a grand time of it.

Almost nobody was up and about, out of our little group of travelers, anyway. I caught a glimpse of Glorfindel talking to an old man with a big hat... holy crap! That must be Gandalf! Hot diggety dog! I rushed up and barely caught up to them before they disappeared through a doorway out onto a broad porch.

"Gandalf, am I glad to see you!" I cried, grabbing the wizard's sleeve. He raised his bushy eyebrows and looked startled.

"Mithrandir, this is the woman I told you of," Glorfindel supplied. "Tanith Walker."

"Ah!" Gandalf said, and smiled at me. "The one who dreams. I have heard much about you in the last few hours, Miss Walker. Come. If you are not weary, I would hear your tale."

As expected, once we got settled in a quiet corner of the porch with only the night sounds of crickets and chuckling streams to be heard, I wiped the smile right off his face with the descriptions of my dreams. I held nothing back for the wizard; if he was going to have any insights, I didn't want a single drop of information missing from his calculations. And yeah, it was disgusting, and I kept shuddering with revulsion every few seconds on the last couple of dreams, but I stuck it out, and before long he knew what I knew.

Oh, and yes, I did tell him where I came from. Might as well be completely honest right out of the gate. Oddly enough, _that_ wasn't as distressing to him as the dreams.

"This is most... unusual," he murmured, and began filling his pipe. As he tamped the little bowl, I fretted. "These are Saruman's creations, you say?"

"Yes," I replied with a firm nod.

"Interesting that you know what they look like, not having ever laid eyes upon their true forms," he mused. "For your descriptions are quite accurate."

Thank you, Mr. Jackson. You hit the mark and supplied me with 100% correctly designed nightmares. "So... you saw some of them? While you were in Orthanc?"

"Not by my choice, I assure you," he commented. "They were more often than not small figures glimpsed at work from my perch atop the tower. But Saruman oft came to me, attempting to persuade me to bend, and ever in his company was one of his Uruk-hai, a malevolent being that snarled as often as he breathed, and he stank of filth and cruel intent. He was most unlovely to look upon, even worse to endure his presence. I pity you the visions you have suffered, but I wonder if they are without purpose."

Puffing his pipe for a moment, he continued, "It would seem that your visions are specific. You say it is always the same Orc? There are never any others?"

"Well, apart from... you know, supporting cast, I guess," I said with a shrug. "Yes, it's always the same one."

The wizard nodded as if satisfied. "Aragorn's assessment is likely true, that these visions are conjurings of your own mind, and not a view into the real Isengard. I confess I do not want to imagine my old friend... capable of such deeds as you describe. As to the other concern, I am certain no care was taken in concealing the whereabouts or existence of the One Ring throughout your journey. We may at least rest assured that a like view into _your_ activities is not shared by one of Saruman's servants, or _they_ would have found you before Glorfindel did."

"But... am _I_ seeing a real Orc?" I didn't want to say it out loud, but I was thinking, _A real Orc that's been abused so badly, apparently in the same way all his friends have been abused, it's no damn wonder they're pissy little bastards_.

Gandalf sighed and shook his head. "I do not know the answer. We must hope there is never an opportunity to find out, for I do not believe a meeting with these creatures would end well.

"But come now, you are asleep on your feet, regardless of your attempts to fool me." Smiling, he stood and led me back into the halls, then down the various corridors to my room. I was, indeed, thoroughly exhausted. Bidding the wizard good night, I staggered into my room and collapsed on the bed. Oh man, that was absolutely the softest, most incredibly comfortable mat-...

_Ûnran followed the Pitmaster through winding corridors that angled downward, spiraling ever deeper beneath the valley floor high above. He had the unsettling sensation of the depth of rock and earth over his head, the weight of it pressing down, smothering all of them. He drew in great breaths of the stale air to keep from panicking._

"_Yuh better not fuck it up, whelp," the Pitmaster snarled over his shoulder. "Got my whip here, and I ain't afraid to lay it across your backside if Master gives me the nod. Many's the Orc up there who'd kill to be in your place."_

_Not knowing what to say to that, for he still had no clear idea what duty he was being called upon to perform, Ûnran remained silent._

_Eventually, the corridors straightened and the descent ended. One last long hall, rough hewn and lined with uneven stonework, ended in a large chamber. It wasn't as wide as the training grounds; more on the order of one of the rooms in the barracks that could house twenty or thirty Uruk-hai with only minor disputes over floor space for sleeping. Ûnran blinked in confusion. There were six tables in the room, each with a person strapped down upon it. The tables were shaped so that the person's legs were apart. Five of the bound ones were being... tended by Uruk-hai._

_He had no idea what he was seeing, and just stared in bafflement. The ones on the tables had pale skin, and were shaped a little differently than the Orcs. Before he could ponder their differences, the Pitmaster had a hold of his arm and was shoving him toward the table without an Uruk._

_Tilting his head to the side, he stared at the figure before him. Sighing with exasperation, the Orc jerked his arm._

"_That there's a whiteskin. A **female**," the Pitmaster explained. "Master wants yuh for breedin', so here you go. Start breedin'."_

"_What... am I to do?"_

_The Orc cuffed the back of his head sharply. "Fuck her, you **pushdug** sod! Do I gotta show yuh or somethin'?"_

"_What is the problem here?"_

_Ûnran froze at the sound of his Master's voice._

"_Stupid whelp don't know what to do, Master," the Orc replied._

"_Demonstrate, then."_

"_Aye, Master." With a delighted cackle, the Pitmaster unlaced his breeches. "Stupid whelp," he muttered. "Have to show'im how to piss, next."_

_Ûnran wasn't watching the Pitmaster's demonstration. It was the female's face that captured his attention. She was staring at the ceiling with eyes that had long since lost all hope. Her face and body were scarred, likely from the clawed hands of other Uruk-hai that had bred with her. The pale flesh of her belly bore three long, vertical scars. Her legs were strapped down; she could not prevent what was being done to her. Her arms were also bound to the table, preventing even the most feeble of protestations. But her mouth was not covered; had she possessed even a spark of fighting spirit, there was nothing keeping her from voicing it. Nothing except the utter absence of it._

"_Enough," the White One snapped, and the Pitmaster reluctantly retreated. Ûnran felt his Master's eyes on him. "I trust you need no urging. This is pleasing, so I have been told. Proceed."_

_The Uruk looked once more at the woman. Her lips were moving, yet no sound came out. Tears fell down her cheeks._

"_No," he snarled, baring his teeth. The White One's brows arched with surprise._

"_No?" He stared into Ûnran's eyes for several moments before the Uruk broke and looked away. "Pitmaster, remind him of his duty."_

_The first bite of the lash across the middle of his back came as a surprise. It tore through the thin fabric of his tunic easily, as if barbs were embedded in the leather. The Uruk stiffened and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth._

"_Hurts, don' it?" the Orc smirked. "What'd I tell you, eh? Marks on the back ain't what you want. No sign of pride, that. What it says is, 'I'm a filthy **pushdug** and I pissed off my Master.'" Again the whip whistled through the air. "What else I tell yuh, huh? That cock ain't yours; it's **Master's**, and if he wants you usin' it to make more Uruk-hai, you better damn well put it in whatever cunt he tells you to, understand?"_

_The third strike had Ûnran leaning on his hands on the table, staring down at the scarred belly of the female and heaving air into his lungs so he wouldn't bellow in pain._

"_Pull it out, or I'll have your drawers off and put a few stripes back there," the Pitmaster threatened. "Won't be sittin' for a week." _

_With shaking hands, Ûnran fumbled with the laces of his breeches._

I came out of the dream with one of those full body jerking sensations, like when you have falling dreams and snap awake. It took several attempts to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. A wave hit me, and I curled up on my side in a fetal position, and cried so hard my throat hurt.


	8. Bad Enough to Make an Orc Cry

**Bad Enough to Make an Orc Cry**

Inevitability. That's what my brain was telling me. I sat on the porch through the rest of the night, hugging my knees and going over and over the dreams I'd had, and that was the best I could do. I could fight it, and try to get away from it, try to change it, deny it... it didn't matter. I was strapped on the _Lord of the Rings_ train and the story was going to unfold around me no matter what I did. People were going to be hurt, some would die, and I couldn't do anything about it. Or worse, I _could_ change things, but not likely for the better.

I watched the sun come up, and wondered if it was the same sun back home. Maybe a slightly younger one? Or a different one altogether? I had no idea. Dad was the dusty tome reader, not me. He would know if this was some unrecorded history of our world. He was particularly fond of ancient Middle-Eastern cultures, though he'd been known to poke around Europe a bit. Even named me after a Phoenician fertility goddess. Good one, dad. Should have saved that for your next daughter, the slut-puppy.

Wow, I didn't want to think about my stripper sibling right after watching... Good god. Another shudder like what I'd been enduring for the last several hours nearly knocked me off my chair. My stomach lurched, and I was glad I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast the previous day. I'd run out of moisture hours ago too, spilling it from my eyes and drooling it from my mouth as I wailed.

Who was I crying for? I wondered about that. Nothing happened to_ me_. There was no rape chamber under Orthanc. _Honestly._ And Ûnran wasn't real; he wasn't really being forced to do horrible things. Come on. And that woman... oh god. She looked like me. Well, not _really_ like me, but she _could_ have been me. We had the same color hair, for starters. My body was thinning down to almost her size. I had to thank whoever was running the projector for this sick movie that I wasn't _in her place_, seeing – _feeling_ – that repulsive Pitmaster...

Ah crap, up it came: the long-awaited stomach acid volley across the porch. The force of expulsion dropped me to my hands and knees, and I just heaved like I had poison all the way down in my toes that needed to come out.

"Are you... all right?"

I slowly looked up. Some Elf woman was standing near – but not _too_ near – looking at me with a great deal of concern. I nodded weakly and pulled myself up, falling gracelessly back in my chair. Rubbing my face, I tried desperately not to cry again.

"Come away," she said softly, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I will call servants to attend to this. Come, and you shall be refreshed."

My feet took over and followed dutifully after her, but my mind was gone. I was in the middle of Rivendell. Nobody of a nasty nature could get in here. It was _safe_. I didn't know how long we'd be here, but it was supposed to be restful. I should be meditating or singing softly to a lightly strummed lute in front of a roaring fire. That's probably where Strider was. I knew the Hobbits were clustering around Frodo, and maybe I should have been there as well, but at the moment, my own misery was too pervasive. Too much in the front of my mind.

This mysterious Elf lady took me clear to the other end of the House. At one end of the room we stopped in, there was a great big honking fireplace in full blaze, chasing the chill morning air away.

"We call this the Hall of Fire," she said. "It is a comforting place when one's thoughts are in turmoil."

"Is it that obvious?" I asked wryly, settling down on a couch of sorts. She smiled as she sat by me, and I swear her grey eyes twinkled.

"There is much in your thoughts that shows clearly on your face, Tanith Walker."

I found myself blushing with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, but I don't think we've met."

She chuckled softly. Everything about her was soft, it seemed. "I do not often go abroad, but I have been long in my mother's home, only recently returned here. I have not had an opportunity to meet any of our guests. I confess that I longed to see the sun rise over Imladris once more. Such a sight has been foremost in my mind for many days."

I'd heard _that_ one before. How many of my friends got bounced between parents' homes, honoring some custody or visitation decision? Sighing, I nodded. "Must be rough. Your mom live pretty far away?"

Her eyebrows rose a touch. "My mother sailed to the West five hundred years past. She is in the Undying Lands."

"Uh... is that... really far away?" I asked awkwardly. Something told me it was about as far away as you could get.

Her smooth face smoothed even more, and she smiled slightly. "I see your confusion now. I was not visiting the place where my mother resides, but the land of her birth. Lothlórien, it is called."

"Oh. Okay." I could feel my forehead crinkling with morbid curiosity and the fear of making an ass out of myself, but she seemed to sense my distress.

"When we say our kindred have 'sailed to the West,' we mean they have... passed away. It is... similar in concept, I think, to what Men refer to as 'death.' In a very broad sense."

Now I really felt like crap. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"I am not offended," she said lightly. Then her brow furrowed somewhat. "Estel has told me of you. That you... dream... foul things."

"Estel?" I asked. Had I met someone with that name? Didn't ring a bell at all.

"You know him as Strider," she supplied with a smile. "He was raised from boyhood here, and that is the name he was given."

"Ah." I nodded, then I frowned again. "He told you about..."

"Yes," she said sadly. "The torment you suffer burdens his heart, and he worries for you. I am afraid I can offer little comfort. I have no love for Orcs, as you can imagine."

"God, who does?" I groused, rolling my eyes. Then I crumpled a bit, because if what I was seeing was in any way representative of what was really going on in Isengard, it was an atrocious crime and the worst perp in the equation was Saruman. It was one thing to be a disgusting and foul beast because it was your nature; quite another to be treated like shit to the degree that you _became_ a disgusting and foul beast.

"How much did he tell you?" I asked.

"He did not give me details, only vague hints," she replied, her voice becoming strained. "He did not wish to upset me or... dredge hateful memories."

I looked intently at her. Surely not... "So... how do you know Strider?"

Her smile returned and just about lit up the corner we were sitting in. "We are betrothed."

Startled, I said, "Oh my god, you're _Arwen_!"

"Why, yes I am. Had I not said?"

Laughing, I shook my head. "No, I guess it slipped your mind, what with the vomit and everything. Wow. It's really great to meet you." I extended a hand out of habit, and she looked curiously at it for a moment before slowly reaching out. I pumped her arm a few times and grinned.

"So when's the wedding?" I asked automatically, then mentally kicked myself. Duh, moron. _After the coronation_. Sheesh.

"Father has consented to our joining only after Estel has claimed the kingship of Gondor," she explained. "So we must wait until that time."

I would have thought her a cold maiden if her brow hadn't puckered with just a _hint_ of frustrated, petulant girl peeking out a smidgen. Nodding with approval, I said, "Hey, it'll go quick, I'm sure. Before you know it, you'll be... marching... down the aisle... What is it Elves do when they get married, anyway?"

We actually had a very pleasant conversation, and I could forget for quite awhile that sleep was calling me like a dirty old man wearing a trench coat in a dark alleyway. We laughed and chatted about weird crap men do. Yeah, I know what you're thinking: girls who make it to twenty-six with their goodies intact aren't going to know much about boys. I beg to differ. I had quite a few male friends, thank you very much, and they were all very open about... well, things I would rather they keep to themselves, most of the time.

Eventually, we wandered down to breakfast with the rest of the household. The dining room was _crawling_ with Elves. Goodness. I found myself sitting between a couple of men who, honestly, could have passed for women with just a dab of blush on their cheeks. The food was pretty uninteresting, too – all breads, fruit and wimpy things like quail eggs. What, they don't have cows around here? Nobody's ever heard of steak? Ah man, gimme a thick, juicy cut of ol' Bessie, and I'll be a happy gal. Rare as you can get it and still be able to outrun it.

Evidently Elves didn't go for red meat. Pfft. Probably why they had no muscle mass to speak of.

In spite of my incredible hunger by this time, I managed to consume the necessary quantities without looking like a rooting pig hunting truffles. After awhile, though, it was starting to look like nobody was anxious to get up from the table, and I wasn't about to make a spectacle of myself by standing up, so I just sort of... leaned back in my chair. Closed my eyes a little. They were all talking around me, and their voices were like the droning sound of a roomful of Peanuts parents. I fought like crazy against sleep, because the last thing I wanted was another round of _A Clockwork Orc_ at the dinner table. But I couldn't keep my eyes open, no matter how hard I tried...

_There was barely room in the cubbyhole for Ûnran's body, no matter that he folded himself up as tightly as he could. It was dark and out of the way. None who looked would even know he curled there._

_His body expanded into the nooks and crannies of the tiny space with every shuddering breath he took. Small sounds came from his throat. His arms were wrapped around his head as if he warded off blows. His knees were pulled up tight against his chest._

_Drawing in a shallow breath, for he was so compacted in the niche there was no room to fill his lungs completely, he let it out slowly on the tail of a whimper that turned into a whine. His shoulders began to shake, and a strange barking noise erupted from him. Hot, salty water seeped from his eyes, stinging them and blurring his sight. Clamping his mouth shut, he tried to still this feverish affliction, but it would have its way. He had no more power over the water and the sounds than he did over anything else. His Master had made that abundantly clear._

My eyes flipped open again, and it didn't look like anything had changed.

"Miss, are you well?" one of the Elves next to me asked, looking worried.

"Yes, I'm fine," I replied. "Just... drifted off, I guess. I'm all right."

He didn't look terribly convinced as he offered me a napkin. I raised an eyebrow at that, but accepted it. Then I realized my face was wet. I muttered thanks and wiped my cheeks dry.

God dammit, was I going to get jumped by those effing dreams every time I closed my eyes around here? I thought they'd go away, or at least become less frequent, once I was safely in Rivendell. And I was _so tired_. I would give almost anything for just one night without dreams. Just one. Is that too much to ask?

When breakfast _finally_ ended a while later, I stumbled drunkenly out the door. Yes, they served wine; no, I didn't drink enough to get drunk. I was _tired_. I had to ask three or four different people in as many hallways how to get to my room. Once the door was closed, I just leaned against it and stared at the bed. My sleep-starved brain seemed to think it was a monster lying in wait for me.

I was startled by a knock on the door, and hastily turned to open it.

"Miss Walker," Gandalf said, bowing formally. "You seemed distressed. Is there anything I may do for you?"

Sighing, I invited the wizard in and gestured for him to make himself comfortable in one of the cushioned chairs. I sat opposite him, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. "Gandalf, can you guarantee me an Orc-free night? Hell, how about a nap or two without getting paid a visit?"

"You saw the Orc again?"

Nodding, I hung my head. I really didn't want to tell him the gory details. It was embarrassing and horrifying and... just plain gross. I danced around the gist the best I could, only sure I'd conveyed the idea when I saw the wizard's mouth fall open in shock. Yeah. And _you_ thought he was breeding them from Orcs and 'goblin men.' What, may I ask, did you think made up the _goblin men_? Hmm?

But... it wasn't _real_, dammit! I was _not_ getting front row seats to Saruman's surgical theater of abomination-building.

"And what of this morning, at breakfast? I saw you weep."

"Yeah, me and Ûnran had a good cry together," I snorted. "You know it's bad if _they're_ falling apart over it."

"Now I _know_ you do not look upon a real Orc," Gandalf said with a chuckle. "Their kind do not weep, for that would mean they are capable of remorse. Such is not known to be true."

Leaning back in the chair and roughly rubbing my face, I said, "I'm afraid to go to sleep. Afraid I'll see... I could look away when the other Orc did his little... demonstration, because Ûnran did. But I don't think my brain's particularly interested in being nice. Next time, I have a feeling... Even _I_ know one time doesn't always do it. If you seriously want to get pregnant, sometimes it takes a few shots before it works. One of my friends was at it for _three years_ before _she_ got pregnant. So... I have to assume my brain's going to be using that knowledge and making him... rape her _over_ and _over_ and _over_..."

I hated to lay all this on Gandalf's shoulders, but he was like the ultimate father figure. He'd have to do while mine was out of pocket for the foreseeable future.

Oh good god. I hadn't thought about that. "Gandalf, I want to go home," I whimpered, raising my head from the seat back and staring at him. "This isn't fun anymore. Not that it really ever was, but it's exponentially not fun _now_." Leaning forward again, I pleaded, "Can you send me home? Do you have... a big hot-air balloon or a pair of red shoes I can borrow? I'll take a catapult to the Moon at this point, if that's all you've got."

Gandalf smiled kindly at me. I could almost hear 'tough noogies' before he ever opened his mouth. "I am afraid I lack such power, Tanith. Perhaps in time, a way home will open for you."

"Huh. So I guess I have to suck it up until then," I grumbled, sagging in the chair. "Well, I guess that's that, then. I'm probably going to die here. Might as well accept it."

"You need 'accept' no such thing," he admonished lightly. "I cannot see all paths ahead. There may be a way. We must be patient."

"Near as I can figure out, I'm dreaming this crap because I _haven't_ accepted the inevitable, you know?" I protested. "I'm having too good a time, or not really thinking about the damage I could do. I know a lot of things that will happen, but they're all happening _wrong_. I don't even know the thing I _know_ is going to happen _is _happening until it's already _happening_. I can't warn anyone, I can't stop it... Then it might be something that _needs_ to happen, and if I interfere the whole world blows up..."

"Tanith," Gandalf interrupted, "you have too much weight upon your shoulders for one person. You do not have the power to alter the course of events. Perhaps you may cause a ripple now and then, but no lasting harm may be done by you alone."

"But _Tom_ said I was... what, a 'shaper' or something? A 'shaper of things,' that was it. What did that mean? Am I _supposed_ to have some impact, good or bad? How will I know which way it goes until it's already gone?"

"Ah yes, Tom Bombadil," he nodded, leaning back in his chair. "He is a unique person in this world. Unfathomable to most, even the Wise. If he has named you Shaper, then that is what you are. What you shall _shape_... that will likely become known at the proper time."

Now _that_ was the Gandalf I expected. Riddles and ambiguities. "Well, if I'm going to find out, that means I have to ride this story to its end, right?"

"I expect so."

"Then I guess I won't be staying behind."

His bushy eyebrows arched a little. "Staying?"

"I know you said you didn't want to know what the future brings, but I _know_ what comes next," I said with a bit of agitation. "The Ring's got to go to the Fire, that's all there is to it. A group has to be put together to... escort it, if you will, and I need to be in that group. I don't _want_ to be in it, but I _have_ to be. Just... don't leave me behind."

"We shall see what decisions are made when the time comes." Rising, he said, "Again, I find you attempting to deceive me. You are weary beyond your ability to remain awake much longer, and I have overstayed my welcome as it is. Do try to get some sleep, Tanith." I almost objected, but he raised a hand and gave me the 'not another word' look, then left the room.

Dragging my feet, I did as I was told. Tossing my gaggy green dress on a bench, I climbed into the bed and hoped against hope that somehow I'd be able to stay awake in spite of the thick, warm comforter, the fluffy cool pillow, the sound of wind blowing through the leaves of a tree just outside my open window...

"_Get outta there, whelp."_

"_How'd you find me?" Ûnran growled, slowly unfolding his stiff limbs from the dark recesses of the niche._

_Zûrash pointed to his nose. "Yuh got a scent I know. Followed it. Pitmaster's lookin' for you."_

_Furrowing his brow angrily, Ûnran curled his lip and snarled, "I don't fucking care. He can look all he wants. I ain't doing it again."_

_The elder Uruk regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then sighed. "Don't fight it, whelp. Use it. Take it to battle. Throw it at whiteskins."_

"_Whiteskins ain't done nothin' to me," Ûnran growled. "No reason to..."_

"_That's where you're wrong," Zûrash snapped. "You wanna know what whiteskins've done to us, you ask them filthy beggars runnin' the forges and choppin' the trees. They got stories to tell. Shit that'll turn your hair white as Master's. Maybe we're better'n them, maybe we ain't exactly like'em, but that don't matter to whiteskins. They ain't gonna see the difference, so we gotta forget it too. Down here, we can kick'em around all we like. Up there, we gotta be brothers, cause everybody's a whiteskin, and they hate us. **All** of us. Remember that."_

"_But... I don't want..."_

"_You don't want?" Zûrash mocked, shaking his head. "Yuh got a hard head if yuh think anything yuh want is what's comin' to yuh. Lemme spell it out for yuh. We don't get to **want.** We don't get to **think.** We don't get to **ask.** Master puts wants, thinkin', and answers in our heads for us. Anything that's yours better stay good and buried, cause Master don't wanna hear it, he don't wanna even suspect you got somethin' going on in your head he didn't put there himself." Grimacing bitterly, Zûrash spat on the floor with disgust. "You do what you're told."_

"_I don't wanna fuck that female again," Ûnran muttered. "She's... she's dead. Just... layin' there. Don't move, don't say nothin'..."_

_Zûrash stared at him for a moment. "Whatchou expect, whelp? You think she oughta be welcomin' you with open arms and open legs? Looked at yourself, have you? Any of us? Look, whelp, I'll tell yuh this once cause you won't be goin' out with a group for a bit yet. Parties go up top to burn villages and take spoils. Sometimes they bring females back for the pits. Sometimes they play with'em a bit first. They ain't supposed to fuck'em and bring'em back; Master's pretty shitty when that happens. Got his 'records' or some shit. Don't want cocks he don't pick gettin' into cunts he ain't written down. I been on them raids a fair few times. Got to run down a couple of'em myself. That's it, though; yuh gotta run'em down. They see some of us comin', and they bolt. Know why?"_

_Ûnran shook his head, eyes wide._

_Lowering his voice, the elder Uruk leaned close and bared his teeth. "Cause we're **filth**, whelp. Monsters. Beasts. Master made us for one purpose: kill whiteskins, many as we can. Beat'em down, take the fight outta them. Fuckin' their females is just one way. Actually one'uh the best ways, cause there ain't nothin' in the whole world more disgustin' to a whiteskin than bein' in the same room with Orc cock."_

_The young Uruk grimaced and looked away. Zûrash sighed again._

"_Just tellin' yuh how it is, Ûnran. I didn't wanna believe it either. I was stupid as fuck once myself, thinkin' I could say 'no' to anything 'round here. Nobody saw fit to tell me how it was. Wasted a lot of water in holes like that one before I learned. So now yuh know. Go on. Tell the Pitmaster you're ready and willin'. Just do it. Get it over with. Yuh keep defyin' Master, and the punishment'll get worse. May not live through it one'uh these days."_

When I drifted awake this time, I wasn't sure how to take it. It was all so _hopeless_. So damn _depressing_. Okay, I _get_ it! I have to just deal. Fine. The current of the story is too strong for me to swim against. I get it. Let it go, will you? Jesus!

I couldn't help it. I felt some kind of connection to that poor bastard. He was probably... some part of me that was manifesting in a really dark and ugly way. And getting its ass kicked every second for being dark and ugly. Part of me wanted to just... give that Ûnran a hug, you know? Tell him it would be okay. Get him the hell _out_ of that place.

Yeah. I needed to get him out. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. But how? In these dreams, I was just an observer. As real as it seemed, I couldn't recall a sense of having a physical form or anything. Nothing that would give me leverage to, I don't know, pop Saruman in the mouth, for example. God knows he deserved it. And there I was, getting confused about things again. Not _real_. Not the real _Saruman_. Nobody's _that_ sick and wrong.


	9. Beds and Blankets Everywhere

**Beds and Blankets Everywhere, and Not a Single Eye to Shut**

I thought just sneaking a few minutes here and there would get me the sleep I needed eventually. If one big, long rest wouldn't spare me the _Uruk-hai Follies_, maybe a whole bunch of little bitty ones would do it. Nope.

The very next time I dozed off, I saw Ûnran being whipped by the Pitmaster. Even if I'd wanted to interfere, I couldn't have done it. I'd seen movies that had flogging scenes in them, and they always made me a little uncomfortable. Seeing what amounted to a real one right before my eyes just paralyzed me completely.

I was so close I could feel the draft stirred by the whip with each stroke. I could see the sweat standing out on Ûnran's dark skin. He wasn't even tied to the post; there were leather straps bolted to either side, and he just hung on with a grip that would've strangled a puppy. No matter how much that nasty Orc taunted him, he didn't scream or cry or anything. The most he'd do was grunt a little and flinch from the impact, but that's it. His eyes were squeezed shut so tightly, his whole face was contorted.

To be honest, I never paid much attention to the Orc blood in the movies. Barely spared a glance at any but the ones actually doing any talking, and Jackson only lingered on one of them receiving a visible wound, which I shied away from because arms and heads getting chopped off isn't my cup of tea. It came as a huge surprise to see that their blood was black.

When I snapped out of it, I wanted to be sick. Just... all over the place. The bed, the floor, the bench, that hideous dress, over the balcony rail... Just to be safe, I huddled in a corner and stayed there for a few hours, hoping if I didn't tour the area, I wouldn't leave a trail of puke behind me.

Staying in one place in a quiet, dimly-lit room turned out to be the recipe for the worst dream of all. Even though I knew we'd get to it eventually, it was still god-awful. And I didn't know who to feel the most sorry for: her for being helplessly used, or him for doing the using against his will.

I had to get out of that room and keep moving, stay on my feet, fight the need to sleep. Managing to get to the Hall of Fire with only the occasional clumsy ricochet off the walls, I collapsed once again in front of the hearth. Watching the flames, I had no strength to stop the tears. Whenever I'm tired, I get weepy and sniffly. Deprive me of sleep for weeks, and apparently I become a cranky toddler working up to a massive meltdown.

"I thought you might be found here," Arwen said softly nearby. In a moment, she was sitting beside me on the divan. Scanning my face and frowning, she asked, "Have you still not slept?"

"No," I replied sullenly. "My brain has decided the latest entertainment is Orc breeding. Yippee." I twirled my finger in a 'woo-hoo' gesture. "I've decided I'm not going to sleep again until I go home. So if you all get sick of me being exhausted and bitchy, get hopping on the whole 'send Tanith home' project."

I quickly learned that sarcasm has limited brand recognition in Rivendell.

"O Elbereth!" Arwen cried, eyes wide with shock. "Did you say... _breeding_?"

"Um...," I faltered awkwardly. Gandalf reminded me that his 'big reveal' about Saruman's treachery was scheduled for the Council gathering, and not even Elrond knew about it, so mum's the word. All right, he didn't say it quite that way, but essentially, that was the gist. Basically, keep your big mouth shut, Tanith. Because you know a conversation about Orc breeding programs will eventually lead to who's running them. _"Did_ I say 'breeding'? No, I meant... reading. Um... hilarious stuff, watching an Orc try to read." I laughed unconvincingly a few times. Then I remembered what she'd said the day before, and the conclusion I drew. Oh crap.

"No, Tanith, you said breeding." Fixing me with a stern look, she said, "You do not lie well. What have you seen?"

Wincing, I crumbled. I was suddenly reminded why I never held government positions that involved any kind of security clearance. Sighing, I told her what Ûnran was being forced to do, in a general sense. I didn't mention Saruman, and told her I wasn't going to say who was in charge, but I think the idea of assembly line approaches to mass rape for the purpose of producing more Orc offspring was plenty horrifying enough for her without pointing fingers at formerly trustworthy allies as well. She looked about like I felt that morning.

"How... how can you stand...," she said weakly, her voice shaking so much I barely understood it. "Such horrors... How can you not have gone mad?"

Snorting, I replied, "Who says I haven't? I'm about this far away from going round the bend, I swear." I held my thumb and forefinger about a half inch apart to demonstrate. "I'm sorry I told you. It's... probably hard to hear after... I mean, it sounded like you were saying yesterday... this sort of thing... happened..."

"To my mother," she finished quietly.

"I'm so sorry," I said sincerely, but with a bit of relief as well. I knew Arwen now, and the idea of her... Ew. No way. She was fast becoming my homegirl. Asses would have to be kicked if that ever happened to her. Even if I'd have to take a number behind Strider to do it.

Arwen nodded sadly. "The torment she suffered followed her for a year after she was liberated from their cruel hands. When she could stand the anguish and shame no longer, she sailed to the West for healing and relief."

"I'm sure she found it."

"Yes. I am sure she did." Turning to me, her gray eyes swimming with unshed tears, she said, "My heart breaks that your mind shows you such things. Has Mithrandir not discovered a remedy?"

"Honestly, I didn't know he was looking for one," I admitted. "Things like this don't happen where I come from, you know?"

"Dreams such as you have experienced are not common _here_, either," she pointed out.

"That's the impression I've been getting from everyone," I agreed with a laugh.

"You are truly a brave soul," she said. "To endure such vileness and still have the capacity for mirth."

"Hmph. If I was brave, I'd just shrug it off and go straight to bed." The other part of this whole equation slid back on the radar all of a sudden, and I frowned.

"Is there something else, Tanith? You look grave."

"Yeah," I said slowly. "Something I haven't... really told anyone else. I... uh... feel... sorry for him." Before she could flip out, I hastily explained, "I mean, I know he's not real, what's happening to him isn't real, but he's like an extension of me. _Part_ of me. Maybe the dark and twisted part, but... well, he's going through the most horrible crap. He... _I_ am in _pain_ over what I've seen. It's like... not only am I sort of being swept helplessly along with the tide, but I'm... I have to do things I don't want to do while I'm _in_ there. I don't want to have to kill anyone. Good grief! Where I come from, you just don't do it, unless you're not too fussy about where you spend your retirement."

Sighing, I shook my head. "You're going to be really grossed out by this, but I don't think I'll be able to kill even one Orc after the last few weeks of seeing one in his... natural habitat, I guess. It's not that I don't think they're repulsive in the extreme, it's just that... they're not... dumb animals without thoughts and feelings. At least, that's what my mind has shown me. Probably isn't true. I'll probably have a rude awakening not long after leaving Rivendell. But... I'll be more likely to listen, and give them a chance to be something else _before_ killing them. You know, instead of killing first and asking questions later."

Though Arwen shuddered at the thought, she forced herself to smile. "Not just brave, but kind-hearted as well. I sincerely hope your sympathy does not win you grief."

"Amen to that, sister."

* * *

><p>It was a couple of days later, and several cat naps full of rape and torture, before Frodo finally emerged from his room looking pale and thin but alive. When I found him, he was surrounded by the other Hobbits,getting clapped on the back and welcomed warmly.<p>

"Hey, you lazy layabout!" I called as I approached. "Shame on you for making us worry."

"Tanith!" Frodo cried, and threw his arms around my waist. "I have not thanked you properly for your care those many days in the wilds." Stepping back, he gazed sincerely up into my face. "I cannot tell you what a comfort it was to feel the warmth of a living person, to hear a strong heartbeat and a soft, gentle voice, always calling me back from the Shadows."

I didn't quite know what to say to that, and just sort of awkwardly punched him lightly on the shoulder (the _right_ one, not the left). "Eh, you owe me one. Did somebody mention a feast? You know me; can't get enough of the food here." I rolled my eyes, and Pippin laughed heartily.

"No, Tanith, I do not think they have found your... 'steak' yet," Merry chuckled.

As we walked to the dining hall, Frodo kept looking at me with a worried expression. "You seem weary," he finally said. "I have always heard that Rivendell is a place of rest and healing. Have you not found such healing here?"

"No," I sighed. "The dreams are worse. Much worse. And I can't even shut my eyes for a moment without..." I shuddered, and damn near teared up again. "I can't talk about it. Sorry."

"Forgive me," he mumbled. "I did not realize..."

"Hey, don't you worry about me," I said firmly. "You've got enough on your plate without adding my little angsty issues to the mix."

He smiled a little. "I will worry if I feel an urging to do so. You seem close to collapse, Tanith. If there is anything I can do..."

Shaking my head, I said, "If Gandalf can't fix it, nobody can. I just have to live with it, I guess."

The dining hall was _packed_. All the Elves I'd come to recognize over the past few days, as well as a bunch I hadn't seen before, were in attendance. _And_ there were Dwarves. Wow. I hadn't expected that so soon. We all separated to assigned places, and I found myself sitting between a couple of different Elves this time. I _think_ one was a man and the other a woman, but honestly, all the Elves looked like a bunch of women to me, so it was hard to tell.

The conversation at my end of the table was lighthearted and jovial, and I ignored most of it. Just nodded and smiled when it seemed appropriate. Again, the susurrus of Peanuts adult voices 'whuh-whuh'-ing all around made my eyelids heavy. I'd had a few occurrences over the years of that effect where I was doing something like, I don't know,_ driving_, and I was so damn tired I couldn't keep my eyes open. Alone in a car, I could get away with slapping my cheeks, prying my eyes open, shaking my head roughly to wake myself up enough to drive another mile. In a room full of Elves, Hobbits, Dwarves and a wizard, I was pretty sure anything weird like that would not go unnoticed.

Glancing toward the middle of the table, I saw Arwen seated beneath a canopy, delicately eating and smiling at the Elves around her. Gandalf was at the head of the table with Glorfindel and a dark-haired Elf I had to assume was Elrond. He'd been ensconced with Frodo the whole time I was here, so I hadn't seen him until now. Unlike everyone else who either only vaguely resembled the actors from the movies or looked nothing at all like them, Elrond looked like Hugo Weaving _to the tee_. I almost thought _he_ got spirited away to Middle Earth too. There were noticeable differences, of course. Elrond looked acres more wise, for starters. Not like way smarter, but like he'd lived through thousands of years of horse shit and wasn't the sort who suffered fools lightly. Maybe he was really a nice guy underneath, but he had 'stern parent who's about to spank the crap out of you' written all over him. And he did _not_ look like a cross-dressing woman. There was no mistaking the maleness of him, even from this far away.

I remembered suddenly that he was Arwen's dad, which meant it was his _wife_ who was assaulted by Orcs. Oh my. I hoped nobody told him what I was seeing. He'd probably have me thrown out on my ass.

After stumbling awkwardly through a sadly unsatisfying meal of delicacies I couldn't begin to appreciate because of the absence of assorted cow parts, I followed in the wake of the diners to the Hall of Fire. It was becoming like a second bedroom to me, I swear. I think I'd passed out in here about as often as in my own room.

Wandering off into a corner, I sort of fell into a heap on a pile of pillows near an open window. I hoped the chill breeze would keep me awake. No dice.

_Ûnran finished his 'work' for the moment and retreated a step, letting his softening member slide out. If he didn't recover and get back in there in short order, the Pitmaster or one of his lackeys would be along soon. His back was on fire; he didn't think he could take another round without crying out, and he did not want to give them the satisfaction._

_Looking down at the female, he could at least be pleased by the fact that he had left no marks of his own on her body. An urge of a different kind assailed him, however._

_Glancing about to make sure the Orcs seeing to the breeding weren't looking in his direction, he leaned down slowly. Her eyes were closed, as they often were, to spare her seeing the thing that was tormenting her. Bending at the waist, he stretched out over her body, and rested his head upon her breasts. Her body jerked slightly with surprise at the unexpected contact._

_He listened to her heartbeat, and just the steady thumping sound eased his own tortured thoughts for a too-brief moment._

"_I.. I am sorry," he whispered. "For what I do."_

_He felt the slight intake of breath against his ear. "Not sorry enough," she rasped harshly in a voice that had not been used in so long it had forgotten how to be gentle._

"Tanith."

I jerked out of the dream, thinking for a moment that someone in the breeding pit had said my name. Looking up, I saw Gandalf standing over me. His brow furrowed with concern.

"Elrond would like to speak with you."

Aw shit.

Dragging myself to my feet with the wizard's help, I shuffled behind to another corner of the Hall where Elrond waited. Thankfully, Arwen wasn't with him; she must have gone to bed or was out snogging Strider or something. I sat down on a couch and stared at the floor.

"Gandalf has told me of your... visions," Elrond said, and even his _voice_ was like 'stern parent gonna spank yuh.'

"Dreams," I found myself correcting him. "They're just... stupid dreams."

"Perhaps," he replied. "We shall see, in time. I am concerned by... the subject matter of your dreams. They seem to be centered around violations of a most disturbing nature."

"Well, sue me for being a sexually repressed little coward, all right?" I snapped. "Where I come from, women my age would have already done up two or three different partners without batting an eye. I made a choice, and frankly that sort of makes it a big-ass deal to me, keeping the trampoline from getting a rupture. I get nervous when a penis gets too close for comfort. Obviously, that sort of set the stage for dreams of a particular kind. _Sorry_."

Folding my arms tightly over my chest, I pouted. Honestly. I was too tired to do anything grown up at this point.

Gandalf and Elrond exchanged uncomfortable looks. "Tanith," Elrond said awkwardly, "I mean no offense. Truly, what you must be suffering is profound, though it is in your mind only. With your permission, I will see if there is anything I am able to do. Will you consent?"

"Good god, _yes_," I cried, nearly shaking with relief. "I'm not adverse to lobotomy, at this point. I'll sign whatever release forms you have. Just... let me _sleep_. _Please_."

Smiling slightly, Elrond nodded. "Very well. I am afraid the Council is convening tomorrow, and there is much that needs to be prepared. After it is over, we shall see what can be done. I apologize that I cannot assist you today; I have been closeted with Frodo, tending his wound..."

"It's okay," I hastily assured him. "Frodo's was life-threatening. Mine just makes me cranky. I'll deal. Um... do you think I could... maybe... attend the meeting?" I asked hopefully.

"You should rest," Gandalf interjected. "Even if you find it difficult, you must try. I daresay the tales that will be told are already known to you." He winked and smiled.

"Then I'd certainly fall asleep if I had to listen, wouldn't I?" I countered with an arched eyebrow.

Elrond smiled as well and shook his head. "No, I think not. I am told you oft awaken with a start, or that tears stain your cheeks from the horrors you bear witness to. The subjects we must discuss are grim indeed, and such interruptions might distract from the matter at hand."

Sighing in defeat, I nodded. "Okay. I'll hang out here or in my room. I'll try to sleep."

Of course, if the other Hobbits could sneak a peek, who's to say _I_ couldn't? Yeah, you all had better check every curtain before you start; there might be a girl behind one.

* * *

><p>The next morning, everything was in a flurry as the porch was set up for the guests attending the Council, breakfast was dished out, and everyone had a spiffy new change of clothes for the occasion. I sagged, looking at mine. Another dress, white this time. Come <em>on<em>. Would it kill you people to give me pants? I can handle the laced-up bodice if you don't have bras, but the skirts have got to _go_.

Muttering under my breath about sexism and the mass repression of women in Elvish society, I dressed and made my way to the porch. As I was rounding a corner, I literally ran into a man about as tall as one of the Elves. He had to grab my arms to keep me from falling over.

"Your pardon, Miss," he said in a deep, rich voice. I looked up into his grey eyes and just... stared.

Good lord. This _had_ to be Boromir. He looked like he'd been ridden hard and put away wet, but that was probably to be expected. He showed up as the Council was starting in the movie, so I assumed he'd only just arrived now. Like Elrond, he bore a striking resemblance to his actor. Okay, maybe he lacked Sean's most _prominent_ facial feature, preferring a more streamlined nose, but other than that... and he had dark hair, not blond... Goodness. I actually felt my heart flutter a bit.

"Sure," I sort of blurted out. "No harm done." He was still holding my arms, looking at me like he'd never seen anything so... Oh come on. He was probably transfixed by sunken eyes with dark circles more than stunning beauty. Realizing suddenly that he hadn't let go, he did so and stepped back a respectful distance.

"Again, your pardon. I did not expect to see a woman here."

What, he thought the place only had men? Jesus, what sort of reputation did Rivendell _have_? "Um... well, there are a lot of women here. Elrond's daughter, for one..." I didn't tell him that many of the men could pass for women if you squinted a little.

He smiled and shook his head. "I did not mean Elven women. I meant females of the Race of Men. From where do you hail? You have the look of one from my own country."

I confess, I was so used to people knowing who I was and where I came from that I just sort of gaped at him. How much should I tell? Now, I'd decided that, come hell or high water, I was joining the Fellowship, so I'd be hanging out with this guy more than a little bit, but at the moment, what with all the other shocks and surprises that were coming in the Council meeting, it probably wouldn't be any fun for the poor guy getting hit with a doozy right out of the gate.

So I decided to play the 'mysterious woman' card.

Smiling slightly and ducking my head a bit, I said, "All in good time. There are many secrets that will be revealed today. Perhaps I shall be one." Dipping a little curtsy, I stepped around him and tried not to saunter down the hall. I could _feel_ his eyes on me until I turned a corner. Now _that_ was satisfying.

* * *

><p>The porch was packed with people, but not a single woman. I supposed that was how things were around here. Keep the womenfolk as far away from unsavory topics like war and stuff as you can. Let the big, strong menfolk sort it out. Yeah, they'd been doing a bang-up job of it so far. <em>I<em> remembered that guy with the evil grin who decided it would be much more fun to keep the Ring than throw it in the fire and destroy it. Yeah. I'm talking about _you_, Is-you-dumb.

From my hiding place, I could see most of the action and hear their words fairly well. Sam was cowering behind the curtain next to mine, probably feeling really guilty about 'dropping eaves' and such. Not me. Bring it on. _Tell_ me you don't want me listening in again. See how far it gets you.

To my surprise, it didn't start out with the whole Boromir-finds-bling-and-gets-grabby or Gandalf reciting the Ring's inscription and pissing off the Elves. There were introductions of all present, and the dark-haired man I'd encountered in the hall was indeed Boromir. I saw Legolas for the first time, too, and he looked nothing like Orlando. If anything, he looked even _more_ like a girl. Very delicate features. Perfect blond hair that I was sure would never experience sweat and grime no matter how much was thrown at him.

Which of course added a mental note to my growing list of _Fun Things to Do While in Middle Earth_.

The keynote speaker, or at least the first one whose terribly important tale had been chosen to lead off the conference, was a Dwarf named Glóin. At first, I rolled my eyes with impatience at his slow, sonorous voice. If I wasn't forced to stand, I probably would have nodded off right away. But then I realized he was talking about Moria.

"Moria! Moria!" he sighed wistfully. "Wonder of the Northern world! Too deep we delved there, and woke the nameless fear."

Oh, it had a name, all right. I shuddered. What was _that_ going to look like, I wondered? Another mental note went down concerning the incredibly important detail of _frequent_ bathroom breaks just to spare me another embarrassing moment. I wondered if the Moria Orcs would let us have one or two on the way to the bridge? You know, just sort of stand around and kick rocks with bored expressions until I finished up.

I swear, the image alone just about made me snort loudly in my corner. Sam shot a look from his own hiding spot that clearly said, _Shut the eff up, damn you!_ No sense of humor.

Turns out a Black Rider went way up to where Glóin's people lived, looking for Hobbits there. I didn't realize they canvassed the neighborhood so thoroughly. You might have thought they were the most diligent detectives, hunting down a little lost child. Except this kid didn't want to be found. So the Dwarves sent Glóin and his son to warn Bilbo he was on the radar. Apparently he knew Bilbo personally. Huh. Imagine that. What a small world.

Next up was Elrond, telling a long-winded story about Rings and greedy people with power agendas falling easy prey to that son of a bitch, Sauron. I found myself sinking into a squatting position, eyelids outweighing a half-brick each at this point. When Cate told the story at the beginning of the movies, it was sort of ho-hum. With Elrond's grave face full of memory of the actual events around Sauron's defeat and the claiming of the Ring by Isildur, it was like someone just threw the Shroud of Doom over my shoulders, and it was a lousy fit.

My mind started to drift, and I dreaded what was sneaking up on me. Maybe... with so many powerful people around... please, stay the hell away, Ûnran. I beg you.

"_Surprised you can lift a sword, whelp," Zûrash commented as they took a brief rest to shake their muscles loose. "Master's had you down there a lot."_

_Ûnran swung his blade wide, facing away from his partner. He didn't want the older Uruk to see him wince, and made no reply to the statement._

"_Been sendin' parties up top lately," Zûrash tried again. "Maybe you'll get to come along, eh?"_

_Struggling to swallow with such a tightly-clenched jaw, Ûnran snarled, "Master ain't satisfied. Ain't goin' nowhere til he is."_

"_Yuh know," the Uruk growled, "ain't nobody gonna pity you for your duty. Don't know why yuh hate it so much, myself. Yuh don't like a cock in your ass, and you don't wanna put one in anyone else's. That leaves cunt, and yuh don't like that, neither."_

"_Didn't say I don't like cunt," Ûnran muttered._

"_What's yer problem, then? Seems to me yuh got the **least** rough job round here."_

_Ûnran faltered. Should he admit it? Could he trust enough to say something so... weak and pathetic? _

"_It ain't right, that's all," he snapped. Zûrash's brows shot up._

"_Well, don't that just beat all," he chuckled. "Yuh sound like one'uh them whiteskins Master talks to a lot. Whinin' and whimperin' 'bout what's 'right' and 'honorable.' Same little shit that does that is feedin' Master the whereabouts of villages we can pay a visit to, and sellin' his own king to line his pockets. You seen'im, I'll warrant. He sure likes to watch us fuck the shit outta his own people, don't he?" Zûrash laughed harshly at that._

_Yes, he'd seen the one his Master called Gríma down in the pits a few times, and tried not to look at the man when he was there. The expression on the sallow face made even Ûnran feel unclean._

I jerked hard back into reality on the worst possible thing ever: Gandalf speaking the inscription on the Ring.

"_Ash nazg durbatul__û__k, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatul__û__k agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_."

Well, to see everyone else's reaction, you would _think_ it was the worst thing ever. To me, it was just a bunch of words spoken in a guttural, growling language. Nothing like the clouds blotting out the sun or cold breezes blowing up around us happened. They were just... words. And maybe my lack of reaction was more unsettling than the words themselves.


	10. Leave Me Behind? I Don't Think So

**Leave Me Behind? I Don't Think So**

"'For I am Saruman the Wise, Saruman Ring-maker, Saruman of Many Colors!'"

_Saruman the Colossal Dickweed_, I thought to myself. Gandalf was well into his retelling of the Day That Would Live in Infamy, when Saruman the White revealed himself to be Saruman, Rape-Master Pederast of Isengard. It made me sick, even knowing my brain was coming up with all this crap on its own. That wizard fell a little too comfortably into the role of asswipe, and I didn't think there was any chance of him being redeemed in my eyes.

Gandalf told about the nighttime rescue from the tower by an eagle, though I was a little surprised that no moth was mentioned. Just some guy named Radagast. Huh. Then there was the visit to Rohan and mention of Shadowfax. An attempt to reach the Hobbits in the Shire, missing us by a day or so. Missed us again in Bree; we'd already headed out. He got ahead of us to Weathertop, and had to fight with the Ringwraiths for a bit before giving up and going to Rivendell.

But ultimately, what brought the fun-time, party atmosphere to a screeching halt was the fact that Saruman turned traitor. I never really gave it much thought because the story is so well known. Okay, the _movie_ is so well known. I never read the books. Just like when Frodo was hurt, I got slapped in the face with the realization that this was _really_ bad news for these people. They did _not_ see it coming. A tired old fact of life to me was brand new and shockingly god-awful to them.

I went off brooding in my own little world, thinking about the movie and wondering if chance would have me following Frodo and Sam or Merry and Pippin... neither path sounded at all nice. It didn't seem to me that anyone was going to have an Orc-free moment except Strider, Legolas and Gimli after the breakup, at least not until Minas Tirith. Oh snap, scratch that. Don't forget Helm's Deep. The last hurrah of Saruman's little brood.

Honestly, I couldn't muster much sympathy at the moment. Maybe for individuals, but not for the mass of them. Realizing that made me feel pretty uncomfortable. Wasn't that the sort of attitude that gave us things like the Holocaust? Could I really turn a blind eye to something that, by my world's definition, amounted to genocide? No. Actually, I couldn't. Whatever it took, I'd make damn sure I wouldn't witness that battle. I really didn't have the stomach for it.

Yeah, denial always works. Looking away really helped the peoples of Rwanda and Cambodia. Darfur was much better off by the rest of the world pretending it wasn't happening or it was none of their business. But what the hell could I do? One person? One little person with absolutely no authority or credibility whatsoever? And how would it be received? Not by these folks, who I _knew_ would have me committed for suggesting it, but the Orcs themselves. If I marched into Isengard and suggested that it would be in everyone's best interests if they gave Saruman the finger and walked off the job...

Oh my. I shuddered hard. I'd be passed from one to the next in a conga line of rape all the way to the tower, then shipped downstairs for the real fun to start. No thanks.

In the end, I decided just to not think about it right now. Maybe something would come to me later. Like, if I actually survived an encounter with some of them. All things considered, the sympathy I felt for Ûnran was selfish, because he was _me_. There wasn't some Orc in the bowels of Orthanc having a miserable time of it. They were all probably laughing it up, knocking beer mugs together in toasts as they shared stories about how despicable they could be. Gandalf said they couldn't feel remorse. He was probably right. He was one of the Wise they kept going on about, wasn't he? If _he_ didn't know what Orcs were like, who did?

I was startled out of my reverie by Sam suddenly leaping from cover and running into the midst of the Council.

"But you won't send him off alone surely, Master?"

"No indeed!" Elrond said with a smile. "You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

Counting to ten and not seeing Merry or Pippin jump up to volunteer their services, I shrugged and stepped into the open myself.

"So... if I can't keep my nose out either, can I go, too?"

* * *

><p>Lying on my bed alone in my room, I stared at the ceiling. Right there in front of everyone, Elrond said what amounted to 'hell no, you aren't going, now go to your room and don't come out until I call you to dinner.' Sam got a chuckle, I got a time-out. Must be the boobs. Wouldn't want them going on dangerous missions. Right sensitive little mines, are boobs. Never know when they'll go off. Take out a whole village with just one.<p>

Assholes.

Hmph. See if I follow orders. You jerks better tie me up in a store room when the group leaves or you'll have a stalker on your hands. Oh yeah, I'd do it, too. Watch me. Don't know who you're dealing with.

It occurred to me that I was hell bent on going somewhere I wouldn't normally want to go. Just because they told me I couldn't. Or maybe my reasons were more complicated than that. If I stayed behind where it was safe, I might as well go back home. It would be no different than if I stopped the DVD player in mid-scene and walked away, never to see it again. The alternative was going back to my boring life where nothing interesting happened. There were no epic adventures; there was a too-long car ride in the morning and another at night. There was paperwork to process, copies to file, calls to be made, customers to serve. There were evenings spent watching the news channel spewing a repetition of top stories from earlier in the day, or yet another stupid reality show that was as far from reality as you could get without a script. There was posting statuses on Facebook (_'Ran out of frickin' mac&chse again – anyone know where I can get a replicator?'_) or reading my friend's statuses and walls and...

God, it sucked. Nothing got my heart pumping, nothing made me worry so much my stomach hurt, nothing made me feel _alive_. Until I came here. It was scary, but it was _living_. It was doing something literally earth-shatteringly important. And I wanted to be part of it. Simple as that...

I almost lost my nerve when I jerked awake from the brief nap with the image of Ûnran pounding away at that poor woman still fresh in my mind. The fact that he was staring off into space as if he was trying to imagine himself somewhere else didn't really diminish the revulsion that was left with me on having to see it _again_.

Sighing, I got up and let myself out of my prison. I wasn't a child, so I should stop acting like one, right? And stop letting thousands of years old Elves make me _feel_ like one. My wandering feet took me to the Hall of Fire, and I slumped on a divan in front of the hearth. I should probably stop letting imaginary manifestations of my id scare me off, too. (Heh, see? I may have copied my roommate's notes, but I picked _some_ of it up.)

The place was almost empty but for a small cluster over in one corner. I glanced over; minstrels, by the look. Oh, this could be good. Rising, I went over to them.

Two had lutes and one played what looked like a penny whistle. They were in the midst of a song when I approached, and I listened for a bit. It was very relaxing, but nothing like what I was used to.

"Hey, uh, how well do you jam?" I asked when they ground to a halt.

One of the lute players asked uncertainly, "Jam?"

"You know. Play randomly, but still make it sound good. Not like playing written music. Here, let me show you. Can you play this..."

I hummed a few tunes for them, and they started picking the notes out, following my pitches and rhythm. I was no closet American Idol star, but I could carry a tune if the bucket didn't have _too_ many holes in it. While I worked with the guys (pretty sure they were all guys), people started filtering into the Hall around us, several coming over with intrigued looks on their faces. I noticed Elrond and Gandalf out of the corner of my eye, and even Strider was there with Arwen. Of course, the Hobbits were all in attendance, including Bilbo. Pretty much everyone from the Council was there.

Fantastic. They were going to get a real kick out of the nutso girl singing for them in a sec. Send me to my room, will you?

These Elves must live for making music, because they picked up what I was humming for them, down to all the little nuances and bridges, until about twenty minutes later when we were ready. I decided preamble was unnecessary. Screw you people. Mama's pissed. Hit it, boys.

_There's a fire starting in my heart  
>Reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out the dark<br>Finally I can see you crystal clear  
>Go 'head and sell me out and I'll lay your shit bare<em>

Oh, you should have seen the faces! The Hall of Fire had probably been around for hundreds of years, but it had _never_ seen anything like Tanith Walker gone bonkers from lack of sleep. I'm no stage performer, and actually get nervous in front of large groups, but exhaustion was making me loopy. I even wished I had all those dishes from the singer's video to throw around the room.

There was absolute, pin-dropping silence to greet the end of the song. Fine. Whatever. Turning back to the now eager-for-more Elves in my 'band,' I got them started on the next one.

There were a few songs that were total favorites of mine, and I had a massive need to share. I sucked at playing instruments, but didn't do too badly with singing, so I had to school the tin whistle player on the harmonica solo. Once they were savvy, I cued it up.

_It doesn't matter what I say  
>So long as I sing with inflection<br>That makes you feel I'll convey  
>Some inner truth or vast reflection<em>

There was something about that old Blues Traveler song that brought out the growl in my voice. Not many did that. I really poured it on. I'd been listening to Orcs chatting for weeks; I had no trouble channeling their delivery.

_So desperately I sing to thee of love  
>Sure but also of rage and hate and pain and fear of self<br>And I can't keep these feelings on the shelf_

When I reached the end, my voice echoing around the Hall like thunder, I just glared at everyone, daring them to say a word. I passed a thank you over my shoulder to the minstrels, then stomped out the doors. Even if they probably wouldn't know what it meant, I flipped them all off over my head. Tanith Walker has left the building.

It wasn't until about an hour later that the first niggling feeling of _what the **fuck** was that about_ crept into my head. Then I just sort of slumped on a bench out in the gardens, the sun nearly setting, and covered my face with my hands. Holy crap.

"May I join you, my lady?"

My head jerked up, and up. It was Boromir, clearly about to receive the Tallest Man in the Fellowship award. "Sure. Have a seat." He actually sat on the bench beside me, rather than on the one next to it. That flutter in my gut showed up again, and I sternly told it to pipe down; this guy had 'gonna bite it' written all over him.

Which really shouldn't have been much of a discouraging thought, from a 'play with your food' perspective. Nothing says 'he won't spread rumors about what a loose woman you are' like getting turned into a pin cushion by a load of Orcs. None of that 'morning after' awkwardness, either. Not for long, anyway.

I shook my head vigorously. What the _hell_? So what, you're telling me being sleep-deprived not only makes me a brat, it turns me into a torch singer and a floozy as well? Jesus! Maybe I could take a few rounds of _Straw Orcs_ if I absolutely had to, just to get past this weirdness that was _not me at all_.

"Tanith?"

"I'm sorry," I said, startled. Had he been having a one-sided conversation with me all this time? I had no idea.

"It is no matter. You seem distracted."

"You've got _that_ right," I muttered. "Things get boring in the Hall of Fire or something?"

"After your performance, yes," he chuckled. "Several ladies felt obliged to depart early for a breath of air."

"Probably did them a world of good," I said. "The songs they sing around here are all about things people did thousands of years ago. Where's the love, you know? My people sing about it all the time." Not that the songs I chose to sing were particularly classifiable as 'love' songs, but still.

"Indeed?" he replied, arching his eyebrows. His voice was deep and warm, like cozy snuggling next to a fireplace. "I am afraid your secrets were not revealed in the Council. Perhaps you will tell me now what land you call home."

I could feel it rising up from my breasts like they were turbines that suddenly kicked in. A bright red blush was likely coloring my chest and cheeks now as we spoke.

So apparently brat, torch singer, floozy, _and_ thirteen-year-old giggling teenager with a crush. God dammit. Someone hates me big time.

"Well, that's an interesting story," I began. "You may as well know about it. After all that was discussed, I doubt I could shock you."

He chuckled quietly again. "I am not easily shocked."

Good lord, he had his arm across the back of the bench and was leaning toward me. Not like about to fall on top of me kind of leaning, but in an intimate way. Like he wanted to be intimate but upbringing and location were keeping him in check. The Floozy and the Teen were having an argument about whether to drag him back to bed or just flirt and tease, while the Brat wanted to say some snarky things that challenged the whole 'can't be shocked' statement. The Singer was humming absently, waiting for her moment, because scenes like this usually lead up to a musical number.

"Oh, I think this'll do it," I replied. "I'm from another world. Another time. Something like that. All this... already happened, where I come from. War's over by... pfft... thousands of years, probably." Glancing at his wide-eyed stare, I grinned. "That do it for you?"

He blinked a few times and managed to rally. "I confess, you have managed it. How in the world did you come to be here?"

Shrugging, I said, "Magic? Who knows? I fell asleep, and woke up in the Shire. I've been traveling with the Hobbits for weeks." Sighing, I concluded, "Weird place you've got here."

"How is it different from... your world?"

"Lots of ways. You still use swords. That's pretty scary."

"You do not have swords?"

"We _have_ them, we just don't _use_ them."

"Ah. Your people have learned to live in peace," he reasoned. "It is the hope of all Men, to one day lay down arms and embrace our enemies as friends."

"No," I said a little sadly, because I suspected that Orcs wouldn't be among those 'embraced.' "We've figured out more efficient ways of killing. Swords are... messy and difficult to master. Too much training involved. When we field an army, sometimes the ranks have to be filled quickly. No time for luxuries like that. We use guns, mostly. Or we have planes that drop bombs so our ground troops aren't even involved in the beginning."

I probably lost him somewhere along the way, and thankfully he didn't want to pursue the topic of military might with me. Especially since it was obvious I neither shrank from the topic nor fluttered nervously without knowing what I was saying. No, news media and the internet made damn sure we were _all_ war experts before we hit our teen years. The presence or absence of boobs did not excuse you from having basic knowledge of the subject.

"How else is it different here?" he ventured.

Deciding to cut him some slack, I offered, "Well, we don't walk everywhere, that's for sure. We have vehicles that transport us around really fast. Almost nobody has horses: these are... machines. Funny thing, we're so lazy anymore that all the walking to get here made me lose about twenty pounds." I laughed at that, and he smiled as well.

He also checked me out. My body automatically straightened, and maybe arched a little to push those ladies out a bit more. Pity the seamstress supplying me was giving me chaste dresses with modestly high necklines.

Shut _up_, Floozy!

"Have you been in Rivendell long?" he asked.

I couldn't help it: the Brat sniggered and re-vamped his question as _Hey baby, do you come here often?_

"Only a few days," I replied, fighting to keep a straight face. "I arrived with Frodo and the other Hobbits. And Strider. Aragorn."

His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. "You came _with_ them? But were they not beset by Ringwraiths?"

Wow, he didn't follow threads well. Didn't I just say I'd been traveling with the Hobbits? Duh? Hmm, maybe he was still a little shell-shocked from the marginally successful attempt to launch a boob volley in his general direction.

"Oh, we had Ringwraiths coming out our _ears_ every day for weeks," I said, waving my hand dismissively. "You get used to it after awhile."

Boromir smiled with relief. "I _thought_ you were speaking in jest. I cannot imagine such a thing. You are too fair and delicate for such perilous trials. Come, speak no more riddles. Truly, when did you arrive, and with whom?"

"You think I'm lying?" I asked stiffly. Oh, you did _not_ just go there, dude.

Good for him, he was still capable of detecting land mines as he backpedaled. "I do not imply that you are telling a falsehood. I merely meant that I _do_ not want to imagine you in such peril..."

"Nice try, asshole," I snarled, standing up. "Look, I spent three weeks on the road getting chased by big, scary dead guys. I had to watch a friend nearly get killed by one of them. I got _run down_ by five of them. Don't you _dare_ call me a liar." Spinning on my heel, I pretty much flounced out of the little glade and stormed up the steps into the House.

Honestly! Who did he think he was? I could almost see the Brat stomping next to me, nodding in agreement. Even the Floozy was hanging out the 'Closed for Business' sign. All three of us gave the Teen the finger as she wailed about us screwing up her big chance. The Singer was directing an orchestra playing some really dramatic music as a backdrop to the scene.

It was disappointing not seeing Ûnran step up and offer to deliver a sound ass-kicking on my behalf, but I supposed he was busy.

I retreated to my room, not even caring that it was probably dinner time or something. Being around others when I was in this state of irritation was probably not good. I might sing something offensive, like _Weenie Ride_. My guy friends _loved_ that one. Sickos.

The little girl flutters the Teen was sponsoring were pretty well gone now. I did _not_ need male ego and chauvinism ruining my day. Floozy very reasonably suggested giving him the opportunity to redeem himself, because a hot body like his... Okay, shut up, dammit! You're not helping! The Brat backed me up, reminding Floozy that men who show their asses like that only back down as a means of getting a piece of yours. Teen just sat in a corner and wailed about how she was never going to get a date and nobody liked her and can't we think of _her_ needs for five seconds? Oh right, that's constructive. Grow up, you little brat. Of course, the Brat took offense and suggested that maybe if I wasn't such a cold fish, someone _would_ chase me down. You bitch, I am _not_ a cold fish! I have just as healthy a sex drive as anyone. Ask Floozy. The Floozy just raised her hand and shook her head. She hadn't had a job in years, and the unemployment office was covered in cobwebs. No support from that corner. Fine! You can all go screw yourselves. I'll just go get some sleep and you'll all go away. That'll teach you. The Brat then snidely advised me to go jump _Ûnran_ if I thought I was so hot. Floozy eagerly nodded, reminding me that he was built like a brick shithouse, sported an impressive set of wedding tackle, and if the lights were out and he was wearing a bag over his head...

Holy shit. Ho-ly _shit_. All the voices stilled at once, and I realized I was shaking. Some scary... twisted... insane part of me just suggested _fucking_ an Orc. Oh god. What was _wrong_ with me? Going to the washstand, I splashed water on my face with trembling hands.

Striding purposefully, I left my room and headed for the dining hall. I couldn't stop shivering. Scanning the crowd at the various tables, I found Gandalf and made a beeline for him.

"I have to talk to you," I hissed in his ear.

With concern on his face, he rose. "Have you suffered another dream?"

"Worse."

Leading the way to my favorite room, I plopped down on a divan in a corner. The fireplace seemed to be a popular hangout at the moment, and I didn't want anyone else to hear what a sick-minded individual I'd become. My voice shook as I told Gandalf about the Four Harridans of the Apocalypse in my head, and their vile recommendation for ushering me into the world of sex.

"If you and Elrond don't come up with a plan real soon," I warned, "I won't be responsible for anything that comes out of my mouth from now on. And I've got a treasure trove of obnoxious just looking for a target."

The poor wizard blinked at me for several seconds, obviously at a loss for how to deal with this view into my mind. Damn, he wasn't the only one.

"You were... awake... when you heard these... voices?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes," I said a little snippily. "Ask Boromir. _He_ pushed a couple of them over the edge."

"Boromir did?" Gandalf asked with surprise.

Sighing and rolling my eyes, I explained the whole embarrassing scene in the garden. "I was... probably a little harsh," I conceded. "I'm not a liar, Gandalf. I've _never_ been a liar. I didn't much like being accused of it. And I _especially_ didn't like being treated like a delicate flower. Or someone who... _shouldn't_ be allowed to do things just because I'm a woman. It pisses me off, to be quite frank."

"Understandable," he nodded. "I am told you did not falter at the Ford, and you gave such comfort to Frodo that he held his own long enough to reach Elrond's aid. While you may believe the latter service to be... womanly and therefore weak, I assure you, none think so. You have strength in you that has shown itself countless times, for you stand before me with your head held high, though your dreams are plagued with such repellent images, even the strongest man would be aggrieved. You can laugh, though your own mind tortures you. You can look on the repugnance that is Orc-kind, and feel pity for them. These are all remarkable things to be admired."

I snorted a short laugh. "Something tells me the last one isn't considered admirable by many people."

"No, and least of all in _this_ place. It is fortunate you came to _me_ with this tale, for I believe Elrond would be most disturbed by such... thoughts."

"I don't want to... sleep with an Orc, Gandalf," I sighed awkwardly. "Really. I don't want to be near them. They... they scare me. I thought I was just... that my mind had just made all that up, that they don't really do things like that... but then I talked to Arwen about her mother..." I shuddered and winced. "I'd rather just have the fear of being eaten, you know? I'd be okay with that."

"It is strange that such a fate would be preferred, but I understand," he said with a slight smile. "Tell me: what of the Orcs in your world? Are they as frightening to you, or is there... an accord between Men and Orcs?"

Frowning, I looked incredulously at him. "You're joking, right? There _aren't_ any Orcs where I come from. Not a one. I don't even know if they _ever_ existed."

He looked a little surprised, but nodded. "I see. Then they must appear even more unnatural to you."

"Pretty much, yeah. But... we're taught not to judge by appearances. Yes, they look foul and gross and act like wild animals, but... well... is that reason enough to kill them all?"

"To many in this world, yes, that would be enough," Gandalf replied, and I picked up a slight tone of sadness in his voice. "To others, no. But you must understand that there is a long history of evil deeds done by Orcs in service to the Shadow. They are not innocent."

"But that's just it," I insisted, leaning forward. "You said 'in service.' Do they serve willingly? All of them? Or just a few? Do most of them get enslaved? What about their families? What happens to them? Do they have communities they have to abandon because some dick like Sauron comes along and snatches them up for his own purposes? Do they have _choices_, Gandalf? Any of them?"

The wizard beamed at me. Actually smiled very widely. "You ask questions no others but the Wise have asked before you. You fear and defend them in almost the same breath. I find this interesting."

I laughed a little. "Yeah. I think they should be left alone, but I don't want one as a pet."

"If it were that simple, Men and Orcs would have found common cause long ago, I suspect. But such is not the case."

"I guess not." Taking a deep breath, I said, "I really hope Ûnran isn't real. I don't think I'd be able to stand it if he was."

* * *

><p>Song Lyrics:<p>

"Rolling in the Deep" by Adele  
>"Hook" by Blues Traveler<p>

Mentioned but not quoted: "Weenie Ride" by Steel Panther


	11. The Ring and the Stalker Go South

**The Ring and the Stalker Go South**

It took a week of intensive sitting and watching me sleep for Elrond and Gandalf to conclude that they didn't know what the hell was going on with me, and they couldn't do a damn thing about it. All the while, I got treated to various random meals, rapes, and training sessions, the occasional flogging for continued conception failure and sassy backtalk, and one trip to the surface to satisfy Saruman that Ûnran wasn't adversely affected by intense sunlight. Score one point for the Pitmaster for guessing right.

Disgusting and horrible though it was, I was actually starting to get used to it. Becoming almost desensitized. I suppose it helped that, every chance he got, Ûnran apologized to her. He tried to make it go quickly. He didn't linger any longer than was necessary. I was grateful for the consideration my brain was finally showing, though it didn't seem willing to let go of the rest of it yet.

When the clouds started to get heavy with snow and the air had turned crisp and cold, the whole reason why we were lounging around Rivendell finally became known to me with the first few scouts to show up with news about what became of the Black Riders after the flooding at the Ford. Nobody found any signs of them other than torn cloaks and eight drowned horses. It was the ninth that worried them the most, but since they'd traveled so far in all directions with no word from anywhere about any of the Ringwraiths showing themselves, they felt reasonably certain that the departure from Rivendell would at least be unmolested, if not unnoticed.

And guess what? I didn't make the cut. That's right. The bastards were going to make me stay in Rivendell until the whole thing blew over, where it was 'safe.' Even rested and more in command of my faculties now, I wasn't having that shit.

Strangely, it was Bilbo who became my co-conspirator as the assembled team began prepping for the launch. He affected all sorts of ingenious curiosities about mail shirts and women's trousers to get me secretly outfitted, and even found out the exact route the group was taking _and_ what pass they were leaving through.

"I've a bit of the adventurer's spirit left in me," he told me with a twinkle. "You've had your feet on that Road. I don't blame you for wanting to walk it once more."

When the day finally came, I had to look unexcited but not _too_ unexcited as they assembled. Wouldn't want complete indifference to blow my cover. They all knew I wanted to go, so I mustered up a little sniffling and crossness. Tried not to focus on the pack I'd hidden just beyond the bridge.

Boromir blew his horn and scared birds out of their nests. I hadn't spoken to him since the Incident in the Garden over a month ago, and frankly was still feeling a bit sore about it. He hadn't sought me out, either, pretty much convincing me he wasn't really interested in more than a flirtation. Or he didn't think too highly of women who called him 'asshole.' Whatever. Bite me, you big lummox.

Elrond made a stirring speech I only half listened to, then the nine of them turned and headed out. I hoped it rained on them the first time they camped. Grumbling under my breath, I turned back into the House and had a seat in the Hall of Fire.

"You mean to follow, do you not?"

I nearly leaped into the fireplace. Sighing with exasperation, I turned and gave Arwen an annoyed look. "You know, just because you _can_ sneak up on people, doesn't mean you _should_."

Unperturbed, she sat next to me. "I have seen it in your heart and all but read it on your face," she said. "If you would hear my words, I advise you to turn from such folly."

"Would _you_?" I asked. "If you thought that maybe, just _maybe_ you could make a difference, would you stay behind?"

"What difference do you believe you will make?" she asked. "If the depth of your knowledge were revealed to the Enemy, it would be used against you. I need not tell you what torments you would likely suffer until you begged them to hear every scrap of what you know."

"You think the same thing wouldn't happen to any of the rest of them? They all know the same things: Frodo's sneaking the Ring into Mordor to destroy it. They all know _who_ he is, _what_ he looks like, _where_ he's going, and _why_ he's going there. There isn't much I could add to that."

Actually, there was a lot I could add, but I wasn't confident about any of it. Up to this point, everything I knew happened in a weird way or not at all. Who's to say I had the right version in my head?

She looked away uncomfortably. "Worse things may be done to you, because you are..."

"Don't say it," I snapped, standing up. "If my dreams aren't figments of my imagination, they don't care. Male, female... it doesn't matter _at all_. I'm going. Don't try to stop me, and for crying out loud, don't tell your dad. Dads have a way of sucking the fun out of everything you want to do."

Smiling wanly, she said, "Sometimes they do, yes."

* * *

><p>I didn't give the Fellowship more than a couple of hours lead before I sneaked out and took off after them. My pack was right where I'd left it. One quick costume change later, and I was on the road.<p>

They were obviously thinking they wouldn't be followed this soon out of Rivendell, for they left a trail a blind person could follow in the dark. Or me. Good thing they were taking the same road out we'd taken in, so I knew where I was going for the time being, even that late at night. Once I reached the Ford, though, I had to put on my Ranger hat and look for tracks. I sort of shuddered a little, remembering the attack there. Hurrying across, I found some signs of recent passage – apple cores and other evidence that Pippin was snacking in transit – and followed the path south.

It became obvious fast that either Pippin was a pig, or the Hobbits were leaving a trail on purpose. There was debris all over the place, every few yards as a matter of fact. As if they knew I'd never be able to keep to the path in the dark without their help. Bless their hearts. And double hugs for Bilbo for getting the conspirators back in business.

By keeping on the move, I managed to catch them up halfway through the next day. I kept my distance, though. Wouldn't want them to turn around and take me back, or think it was safe enough for me to head back on my own. It was exhausting, but I'd just endured a multi-week stretch of crappy sleep habits; I was practically a veteran of sleep deprivation by now.

Well, all good things come to an end, as they say. Two days out of Rivendell, and I got caught. Legolas was on watch and because he's an Elf and can walk six inches off the ground or whatever, he easily sneaked up and got the drop on me in the bushes. Dragging me back to camp, he presented me to Gandalf and Strider like I was a criminal.

I stood in front of them both with my arms crossed and an 'I _dare_ you to say anything' look on my face. Gandalf at least didn't look surprised. Strider was livid.

"What possessed you to follow us?"

"It just occurred to me that you needed a feminine touch in your exclusive little boy's club," I replied mildly. "Someone to remind you to take a bath every once in awhile."

All four Hobbits rallied around me. While I appreciated the gesture, they weren't terribly formidable.

"You can barely defend yourself!" the Ranger barked.

Looking around and spreading my hands out, I retorted, "Oh, and _these_ guys are master swordsmen? When did that happen? Last I saw them, they had about as much skill as me." Turning to Pippin, my go-to guy for all things sarcastic, I asked, "Did you spend the last two months in Rivendell learning how to use a sword?"

"No, I did not," he declared, almost sounding proud of that fact.

"How about you, Merry? Frodo? Sam? Anybody? Great! We're all in the same boat. Try another tactic, Strider."

"You have frightening dreams!" he cried. "You see creatures that paralyze you with fear. You will likely see many on the road we travel."

Rolling my eyes, I said, "I know that! You think I _don't_? Jesus, I know what's coming better than _you_ do. Hey, Frodo, tell Strider here you don't have nightmares about Weathertop."

"I'm afraid I can't," he said matter-of-factly. "That night haunts me still."

"One more is all you get. Give it your best shot." I knew where he'd go next, and I was ready for him.

"You're a woman," Strider snarled. "You have seen what Orcs are capable of. Your dreams are _not_ a lie. They _do_ those things."

Stepping up and jabbing a finger in his chest, I growled, "If they're not a lie, then _you're_ not safe, either. Nobody is. Sorry, but that was your last one. I'm staying, even if you want to waste time taking me back. I'll just keep following. The choice is yours."

Strider appealed to Gandalf, who looked every bit like the cop who didn't want to get involved in a domestic dispute. Boromir stepped back and away, keeping his eyes down lest someone catch them and pull him into the fight. Coward. What, afraid I'll call you another nasty name? Legolas watched the entire exchange with mild interest. And Gimli... well, he's short.

"Very well," Strider snapped. "But I warn you: none will carry your burdens. You will rest when _we_ do, and not until then. We will not coddle you or treat you any differently. Do you understand?"

"That's all I want," I replied.

We both sort of jerked our chins in a nod to one another, then parted ways. They were actually breaking up camp to continue on, so no rest for me. I was damned if I would complain about it, though. I fell into line next to Frodo and beamed at him when we got moving again.

"Bilbo told me your plans," he confided with a smile. "I see you found our trail."

"I expect Pippin's going to have a stomach ache before long," I observed with a laugh.

"Most likely," he agreed. "I am glad you made it. Your presence lightens my heart, and that is a gift worth treasuring on this dark road."

Blushing, I nudged his arm companionably. "Flatterer."

* * *

><p>We hiked by night and camped by day, for the most part. The complete upset in my schedule seemed to do things to my dreams, for some reason. I didn't have them very often anymore. After about two weeks, it became more rare, and even when I did have them, they were usually benign. Well, benign by comparison, anyway. Basically, I wasn't seeing the raping. That was a huge relief, and one I shared with Gandalf and Strider. Gandalf suggested that time was all that was required to end my torment. I cautiously agreed for now.<p>

In the meantime, the experienced swordsmen in the group took charge of educating the nimrods. Thankfully, indignation at spending two months in Rivendell without once trying to learn the sword was spread rather evenly across all five of us. It was nice not being singled out for once.

Not long after we started angling in a more southeasterly direction, I ended up partnering Boromir for a bit of sparring.

"Before we begin," he said carefully, "I would like to apologize for offending you back in Rivendell. It was unkind of me."

Let the backpedaling begin. I could almost feel the Brat winding up for the throw.

"Are you saying you don't want me angry when I have a sword at your throat?"

He chuckled. "I doubt you would ever get so close. But no, it is not for that reason. I have watched you these many weeks, and I confess you are not... what I thought you would be."

The Teen poked her head up for a moment.

"Really?" I replied sarcastically. "What, may I ask, did you think, then?" I had no patience with the Teen at the moment, and gave the Brat free rein.

"In truth, I thought you would be... softer. You were garbed as a lady, so I assumed..."

"Ah," I said coldly. "Now it's down to how I was _dressed_, is it? If I'd shown a little skin, you would have thought... what, that I'm a whore? Is that how you determine your approach? So I was lucky to be 'properly' covered so you wouldn't jump all over me?"

His eyes widened with shock. "No! That is not what I meant!"

"Put'em up, jerk," I snarled, assuming a fighting stance. "This'll be fun."

Apparently the last few months of watching Ûnran sparring with Zûrash paid off in a rush. Grabbing my sword hilt with both hands like they did with their broadswords, I leaped at Boromir with a roar. It was like I was Ûnran for a few minutes, and Boromir was everyone in Isengard who'd made my life miserable since birth. Boromir had to give ground or hurt me, and he wasn't about to do that, so I backed him across the clearing. At some point, I seemed to forget that I had a sword and started using it like a club, whacking the man repeatedly. He seemed bewildered by my sudden change, and only used his sword to block my blows.

I don't know how long I was out of my mind, but all of a sudden I was grabbed from behind, pinning my arms to my sides. The sword fell from my hands and I went limp.

"Steady, now," Strider said evenly in my ear. "Easy."

"Sorry," I muttered. Twisting out of the Ranger's grip, I turned and left the immediate area. Slumping down by the campfire, I stared into the flames. What the hell was that? I wasn't exhausted like before. Yes, my little 'friends' were occasionally making appearances still, but... well... they were aspects of my personality. It was understandable. Even Ûnran was an extension of me. Funny how _he_ had a name and the others didn't. Oh well. There was probably some reason for it, like he was closer to my surface personality. Which wasn't a very comforting thought.

"I believe you will frighten even the most hardy Orc with an attack of that sort," Gimli said beside me. I looked over at him. About all I could see of his face above the bushy beard were twinkling eyes and ruddy cheeks.

Snorting a laugh, I replied, "Somehow I doubt they'll be crapping their drawers at the sight of me."

"Perhaps not, but therein lies your strength," he observed. "They will think you weak, only to find to their dismay that you are not. And then you will have them." He clenched his fist and shook it a little, as if to say that I would not only have them in my hand, I'd crush them as well. Wow. He had some seriously overblown confidence in my abilities.

"Yeah, we'll see about that," I muttered. I didn't want to crush Orcs. I didn't want to _fight_ Orcs. I knew I'd have to, though. At least the bunch in Moria weren't... well, they didn't look at all like Ûnran and his buddies. At least, in the movie they didn't. I wondered if that would be the case in reality, or if I was in for another rude surprise.

Since we'd made it to a region Strider called Hollin, Gandalf felt it would be safe for us to camp through the night as well. I had no problem with that. My rests were almost entirely back to normal now.

Strider kept pacing nervously around, agitated about something. When Gandalf asked about it, he only said it 'felt wrong' around here, like all the animals had gone to ground with fear of... something. It was still day, though, so we settled in for our regular rest from the previous night's march. Sam and Strider took watch. Sighing with the contentment of someone who has no worries because everyone else is worrying quite enough to make up for it, I fell asleep.

"_Oy, got somethin' for yuh," Zûrash said awkwardly. Ûnran glanced over. They were seated at a long table with a few other Orcs, but they were at the opposite end and likely not listening. Too occupied with their own meals and chatter in their own tongue to mind the Uruks._

"_What?" Ûnran asked with interest, setting down the chunk of meat he was eating. It wasn't man-flesh, but it would do._

_Zûrash took a small pouch off his belt and flipped it casually to the younger Uruk. Curious, Ûnran untied the knot keeping the worn leather bag closed and looked inside. Frowning, he dumped the contents on the table._

"_What're these?"_

"_Them's bones. Carved'em myself. For playin' Knucklebones."_

"_You made these for me?"_

_The elder Uruk sneered. "Fuck no. Made'em for **me**, years ago. Won me a bit of coin with those. Good bones."_

_Ûnran picked up one of the pieces and turned it over and over in his hand. All four bones were similarly carved, each side slightly different. Zûrash picked up another one and pointed to one side._

"_That there's the warg side. Here's horse, aurochs, and goat. You get one'uh each, that's eight points. All the same, four. Two pairs gets yuh two points. Give'em a throw." He dropped the bone he was holding into Ûnran's hand._

_Picking up the other two, Ûnran glanced uncertainly at Zûrash, then dropped them on the table. They scattered a short distance then settled._

_Eyes flicking over the familiar pieces, Zûrash grinned. "First time lucky, eh? Eight points."_

"_Why you givin' me these?" Ûnran asked suspiciously._

"_Don't use'em much no more," the elder Uruk shrugged. "Thought you'd... yuh know, get more use outta them."_

_Unconvinced, Ûnran arched an eyebrow. Zûrash rolled his eyes and grimaced._

"_Raids is steppin' up," he explained uncomfortably. "Don't want just anybody gettin' a hold'uh these. Special, these are. So... you hold on to'em for me, all right? Case I..."_

_He let the statement hang, but Ûnran understood. Nodding, he gathered the bones and tucked them back into their pouch, tying it securely._

I was rudely woken out of that strangely endearing moment by Strider bringing me news that a flock of birds had just screwed us out of a night's camp. We had to get moving again. Grumbling under my breath, I packed up my gear.

* * *

><p>In only a couple of days more, we started climbing up into the Redhorn Pass, loosely translated as the Pass That Sucked. Snow was falling all around us, but seemed only to fall like a ton of bricks when we were advancing. Take a breather or camp for a bit, and it almost stopped. Gimli referred to the mountain looming over us as Caradhras the Cruel, but to me it was Crap-Ass the Mother Fucker. At one point, boulders started dropping all around us, thankfully never getting quite close enough to squash anyone. Ten tons of snow were blowing into our faces every minute, and we were all blue with cold.<p>

Except Legolas, who ponced about on top of the snow like he was on holiday at the beach. Fucker.

At Boromir's urging, we stopped and built a fire. Well, the menfolk built the _makings_ of a fire. It took wizard magic to make the actual fire in this wind.

"If there are any to see, then I at least am revealed to them," Gandalf said wryly.

"Don't sweat it," I chattered, huddling close to the meager flame. "I dare anyone to come looking for us up here. Get what they deserve if they try."

We stayed there through the night, looking like a football team on the sidelines planning the next play. In the pale light of morning, the next play seemed to be retreat. Thank goodness we didn't have to have a mountain fall on us to convince the quarterback it was time to punt.

In lieu of snow plows or blowers, we had Boromir and Aragorn digging a trench through the several-feet-deep drifts back the way we came. Legolas ran off to scout the way, annoyingly skating atop the drifts in little girl shoes. The Brat whispered the question on everyone's mind: will our menstrual cycles start to sync up after we'd been in close proximity for another month or two? Snickering, I had to admit I had no answer yet. Give it another week or so, when mine came around again, and see how things went.

When the human digging machines returned, the trench was still deep enough to require carrying the Hobbits.

"I can take someone!" I quickly volunteered. Fixing Frodo to my back like a toddler, I followed in the men's wake, Boromir hauling Pippin, Aragorn with Merry, and Sam... pretty much waiting for the next trip with Gimli the Short and Gandalf. Eventually, we all made it out of the snow and down to where we were when the snow started falling. I collapsed gratefully, certain that after an expenditure of energy like that, we'd be camping.

I decided that 'birds' rhymes with 'turds' for a reason. Strider saw another flock of them, got all paranoid, and Gandalf agreed that we had to keep going, at least until we got off the mountainside. _Not complaining_, I told myself. _That means you, Brat_. The Brat crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

Thank god we camped that night well away from the pass and its snow. As we settled down, there was blah blah blah debate about what to do and where to go. In the back of my mind, I knew where we had to go next, but I was too damn tired to care. Moria sucked something harsh, but it wasn't _here_ right now. As tired as I was, I'd even welcome the return of Ûnran and his repellent job if it meant I could lay down and close my eyes for several hours. And that's probably what would happen, now that the looming threat of Moria and its extremist Neighborhood Association was pushing its way to the forefront of my thoughts.

Thoughts which were broken by the sudden rousing of my companions.

"The Wargs have come west of the mountains!" Strider cried, leaping to his feet. Then I heard it as well: howling. Very loud, bone-chilling howling. Like the Black Riders' shriek, there was an intelligence in those howls.

As we got our crap together once again, Boromir and Strider traded some stupid cliches about Wargs and Orcs that had my eyes rolling. _The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears_. Yay, Boromir. Good one. Oh, but snap! Strider wins with _Where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls._

We hustled up onto a small hill that gave us a view all around and the boys rousted up a big-ass fire. Everyone had a hand on a sword hilt as we sat listening to the howling getting closer. Nobody slept a wink; even Bill the Pony was in a sorry state of panic, regardless of Sam's attempts to calm him.

Sometime in the middle of the night, we found ourselves surrounded by creepy glittering eyes just beyond the firelight. Standing with our backs to the fire and our swords out, we tried to look more menacing than we were. A huge Warg actually advanced, nearly setting a paw into the circle of light around us, and Gandalf stepped forward to challenge it.

"Listen, Hound of Sauron! Gandalf is here. If you value your foul skin, begone, or I will shrivel you from tail to snout!"

I was impressed and a little unsettled, but apparently the Warg wasn't. Calling the wizard's bluff, it leaped forward with a snarl. Legolas sent an arrow into its throat, and the beast dropped like a stone. The rest of the wolves decided they had appointments elsewhere and turned tail. We were soon alone on the hilltop again.

Sagging with relief, I sheathed my sword. "Close one."

"The night is not yet ended," Strider warned. "There will likely be an answer for their captain's defeat. We must remain watchful."

Way to drop a dampener on the festivities and suck the triumphant glow out of the room, Strider. But as it turned out, he was absolutely right. A few hours later, a full force of Wargs, not sniveling little wolves, surrounded us and launched their attack.

Out came my sword, but I was shaking so hard I almost dropped it. A Warg came running at me, looking every bit like those big monsters that attacked the Rohirrim on their way to Helm's Deep. Damn it, why did Jackson get everything wrong _except_ things like _this_? With a panicked squeal, I raised my sword to block the Warg's... face, and it clamped its jaws on the blade, wrenching it from my hands. The bastard _flung it away_. From out of nowhere, an arrow thunked into its neck, and it jerked around to attack the other threat. I scrambled across the ground and grabbed my sword, just in time. Another Warg – or maybe the same one, who can tell? - came after me. Without thinking, I slashed sideways, catching the membranes of its wide-open mouth with the swordtip. Now it was the Warg's turn to squeal. Encouraged, I followed that unexpectedly effective accident with a hard thrust into the beast's throat. Hey, it worked for Legolas, right? Hot blood gushed from the wound, literally splattering all over me.

Oh my. Blood. Real blood. All over my face, my hands, my clothes... Warm and slick, fresh out of the body... Set free by my own hand... I killed something... Oh god, I killed something... Eyes rolled, and I went down. The sounds of chaotic battle faded into nothing.


	12. The Deepest, Darkest, Suckiest Place

**The Deepest, Darkest, Suckiest Place in Middle Earth**

When my eyes opened again, the sun was just coming up. The first face I saw was Frodo's, smiling down at me.

"Hey, you," I croaked. Then I frowned. "Is it over?"

"Yes, it is over," he confirmed. "I am afraid you will need to change your clothing yourself. None felt... comfortable doing so."

Raising an eyebrow, I lifted my head enough to look at my body, then let it drop back down. Gross. Endlessly gross. I had never been this squeamish before, certainly not enough to _faint_. Good god. I supposed that fake blood on the TV screen and real blood splattered all over you were completely different things.

Frodo helped me sit up, then I noticed that my arm was bandaged. I didn't remember getting wounded...

"One of the Wargs tried to drag you off, likely for... eating," he mumbled awkwardly. "Strider tended you."

Nodding, I glanced around. The group was breaking camp now that I'd woken up. But of course, on a bare hilltop mysteriously scorched by a fire I _also_ didn't remember, there wasn't anywhere I could change my clothes without a testosterone-infused audience. Peeing behind a bush was easier than stripping down completely with nothing but a thin, charred tree trunk for cover.

I supposed there was nothing else for it: keep going covered in blood, or suck it the hell up and change in front of them. It was a pretty harsh choice.

"Gandalf," I whimpered. "Can you... make everyone blind for five minutes so I can change?"

His bushy eyebrows rose for a moment, then he chuckled. "We will turn our backs, Tanith. You needn't be embarrassed."

Letting the wizard corral them into a discreet backs-turned position, I turned _my_ back on _them_ and quickly pulled off the soiled clothes. I spared a single glance over my shoulder and was immediately sorry. I saw Boromir's head half turned to look, a hand up to scratch at his unshaven cheek trying to cover for it. Strider stood next to him and roughly elbowed him in the ribs with a scowl.

Great. Grimacing, I hastily put on a clean set of clothes and announced I was ready. I glared hatefully at Boromir in passing, and he had the decency to look ashamed.

Since everything else around here was taking days and days to get to, rather than a fade to black from one scene to another, I was taken aback by the fact that Gandalf was hoping to reach the door to Moria by nightfall. What, of _today_? Ah, _hell_ no. Got anything to say _now_, Brat?

Alas, she was struck speechless.

Gandalf and Gimli led us over hill and dale for hours, trying to find some river that would lead us straight there or something. I was stumbling along beside Frodo, feeling oppressed by the dead silence all around. Looking around for any objections and finding none, the Singer cleared her throat.

_I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord  
>But you don't really care for music, do you? <em>

_Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift  
>The baffled king composing Hallelujah<em>

Again, I got several looks, but ignored them all, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground ahead of me so I wouldn't blunder down a ravine. My voice sounded hollow and feeble in the still air, and my _Hallelujah_s trembled.

_Well your faith was strong but you needed proof  
>You saw her bathing on the roof<br>Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya_

I had a vague image in my head of lonely Shrek and sad Fiona in counterpoint, separated by miles and misunderstandings. Glancing at Boromir's back ahead of me, I frowned, because it wasn't for him that my throat closed and my stomach clenched.

_Well, maybe there's a God above, but all I've ever learned from love  
>Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya<em>

_It's not a cry that you hear at night  
>It's not somebody who's seen the light<br>It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

By the last _Hallelujah_, tears were running down my face, and I had no fricking clue why. Frodo was too confused by the song and my reaction to say anything, and nobody else felt inclined to intrude on my apparent grief either. Fine by me. The Singer proved she was a psycho-bitch weeks ago. Best not to question her play list choices.

_Finally_ we reached that river Gandalf had his heart set on, and aimed eastward. I had thought the lake full of _Hentai_ monster would be right there, but no, there was more climbing and struggling ahead of us in the swiftly fading daylight before we ever got to it.

When we caught sight of the damn lake, my grousing was starting to make noise. Not only did we have to hike over ridges and cuts, slipping and sliding on loose scree, but once we _got_ to the lake, we actually walked _through_ it on this narrow causeway or something that led from the path all the way across.

My second pair of Bree boots was wearing thin already, and shuffling ankle-deep in slimy, stagnant, ice cold water did them no good, nor did it improve my mood. I was pretty sure that _now_ I was going to die. That would just put the capper on my day. Nice way to end it.

Once we reached the blank, featureless cliff face that Gandalf swore blind was the hidden door, I collapsed on a rock and pried my boots off. The wizard spoke comfortingly to Sam as they relieved Bill of his burdens and sent him on his way. Flexing my toes, I stretched my feet and rubbed them a bit while Gandalf turned his attention to the door, struggling over the password, and Boromir threw rocks into the lake. This was stupid. Ramming my feet back into the boots, I got up and went to Gandalf. His arms were up-stretched as he intoned some arcane-sounding words. I grabbed his sleeve and shook it to get his attention.

"_Mellon_," I supplied firmly. The shimmering door developed a seam and began to open. Then I left him standing there surprised and stomped over to Boromir. I grabbed his arm as well.

"Drop it, and get your sword out," I snarled. Honestly, what was it about boys, bodies of water, and the desperate need to skip rocks? "Everybody in. Now. We're going to have company Boromir so gallantly invited."

"What are you talking about?" Boromir growled.

"Wait for it...," I replied cryptically, holding up a finger. Now everyone was facing the lake curiously, and no doubt with a sense of dread since the ripples caused by Boromir's rock were getting bigger and approaching the shore at our feet. "Frodo, get inside," I said softly. I didn't think he heard me, or if he did, he was so transfixed he couldn't move. Either way, all ten of us were standing out in the open like idiots when the surface of the lake suddenly erupted in enough tentacles to keep the Japanese animated porn industry alive and kicking for years.

Even knowing it was coming, I still almost crapped. That thing was _huge_. What it lacked in height, it more than made up for in sheer numbers. Thank goodness for wizards and their cool heads in a crisis, because Gandalf shouted, "Into the gateway! Up the stairs! Quickly!"

Probably because we _were_ facing it, the monster failed its grapple check on Frodo, who twisted out of it like an eel and ran for the mine entrance. Strider and Boromir battled the foremost tentacles while Legolas and Gimli herded the rest of us to safety. When we were all inside, the tentacles grabbed hold of the doors and pulled them closed with a thunderous bang that echoed for so long, I started to get nervous that we'd just announced ourselves to every living thing in Moria, and some that _weren't_ living as well.

I froze in the pitch blackness, unable to move. I hadn't really taken note of what was inside, considering the much more dire threat climbing up my ass a few moments ago, and now I assumed that the place was going to be littered with skeletal corpses like in the movie. But once Gandalf lit up his staff, I found to my surprise that the foyer of Moria was completely dead-thing-free.

Sighing with relief, I followed the bobbing firefly-light up a broad stair with everyone else. It was cold and dry in the mine. I suspected I'd be pining for hand lotion and lip balm at some point, and coughing the dust from my lungs in short order. At the top of the stairs, Frodo declared a dinner break, which we all heartily agreed to.

"You knew of it?" Gandalf asked finally. His voice wasn't accusatory, but I could feel that sort of sentiment in the eyes of everyone else.

"You said you didn't want to know what was coming," I reminded him.

"Yet you felt compelled to warn us in this instance," he replied.

Shifting uncomfortably, I grumbled, "You could have ignored me."

"What would have been the outcome?" Strider asked. I realized Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir were looking between the Ranger and the wizard in confusion.

I shrugged. "Same. It would have gotten a hold of Frodo, but only for a minute. We'd still be in here, and it would still suck."

Strider looked on the verge of an explosion. "Do you mean to say that this was to be our fate all along? You allowed us to waste time in the Redhorn, _knowing_ we would be thwarted?"

"Hel-_lo_! Not wanting to know what's coming means I'm not going to _tell_ you what's coming!" I hissed. "With me here, _anything_ could happen! From my vantage point... things... happened differently, but I don't know if that's because I'm here now, or because the... story I'm familiar with was altered at some point in history." It was the best I could come up with. Good god, don't start questioning me or I'll have to explain artistic license in the motion picture industry next.

"Beg pardon, but what's all this then?" Gimli asked. I had a brief flash of Graham Chapman in a Bobbie costume. Gesturing for Strider to go ahead and explain, I leaned back on my hands and scowled down the stairs into the gloom. Strider gave them a quick run-down of my origins.

As if he wasn't already on the shit list, Boromir turned to me and said, "You were not jesting after all?"

I gave him a withering look. The Brat was quivering with the temptation to unleash verbal death, while the Singer rummaged through her song vault for a really dramatic zinger. The Floozy retracted the whole 'redemption' argument. Only the Teen bubbled up and pointed out that at least he was trying.

"Time enough for full tales to be told when we have left this place well behind us," Gandalf said, rising. "We must press on. It is no less than forty miles from the West door to the East gate."

Dragging ourselves to our feet, we headed out. There was small comfort in the fact that Frodo's sword wasn't glowing in the dark yet. I wasn't sure what the range was on the proximity alarm, though. Did they have to be really close, or a hundred yards off was sufficient to pick them up? And was the Orc-detector really blue? God, I didn't want to find out.

We marched in silence, for the most part. Very little talking once we were in the wide-open galleries and halls. The farther down we went, the hotter and more stifling the air became, yet still I felt a chill as if someone was walking across my grave. It was so dark and horrid... Any moment now, I was sure of it, the attack was coming, even though the movie put it further into the journey than where we were. Even with a modicum of blade-handling under my belt, I still wanted that frying pan. There was something comforting in the domestic lethality of such an object. Or maybe it just wouldn't spray blood all over me on impact. There was that to consider.

Gandalf finally led us to the spot I knew about from the movie: the crossroads. Except here, we _camped_. There was a guardroom right next to it that he decided would be a good place to rest so he could get his bearings. While we settled down wrapped in our cloaks because most of our luggage from Bill's back had been left on the doorstep when the Kraken showed up, Pippin nosed around a gaping hole in the floor. I didn't pay much attention to him; he wasn't supposed to fuck us over with a chain-rattling corpse down a well until much later. Then I heard a _plunk_.

"What's that?" Gandalf hissed, whirling around.

Pippin stood by the hole with his hands behind his back, looking like a little boy who's been caught stealing. "I... wanted to see how deep it was."

"Throw yourself in next time, fool of a Took!" the wizard growled. "Now be quiet!"

A few minutes later, the worst possible sound came to our ears: rhythmic tapping. Ah, shit.

"That was the sound of a hammer, or I have never heard one," Gimli whispered when it stopped.

There are moments when you just _have to go there_. "I've got a bad feeling about this," I said shakily.

"Indeed," Strider agreed. "We must be wary."

Gandalf punished Pippin with first watch, and the rest of us bedded down. I couldn't help it. I actually _wanted_ to see Ûnran. This was more his comfort zone, this darkness and danger and the threat of his cousins running down the halls and climbing up the wells to get us. Inexplicably, I wished he was real just so I could hold his hand. That's all. He'd know if it was going to be all right. Maybe he'd save me if it wasn't.

And maybe birds were poised and ready to fly out my ass. Shaking my head, I sighed, and closed my eyes.

"_Got news, whelp," the Pitmaster snarled. Ûnran glared with distrust at the Orc._

"_Don't wanna hear it," he snapped. "Ain't time for me to go down. Fuck off."_

_The Pitmaster cuffed him across the face, and when Ûnran rounded on him for a long-desired fight, he found a blade at his throat and paused._

"_Yeah, just try it," the Orc taunted. "Master thought you'd be interested. That bit you been spendin' so much time with? Yuh got'er. She's gonna drop a whelp just like yuh."_

_A range of emotions swam over the Uruk's face. He felt a confusion of pride and uncertainty, relief and fear. "What do I do now?"_

"_Wait," the Pitmaster shrugged, sheathing his blade. "Master'll speed'er along. Don't like waitin' on that, neither. Maybe a fortnight, and he'll take it out. So yuh got a break." Sneering at the young Uruk, he said, "I know how much yuh liked it."_

_Scowling, Ûnran growled, "Do I raid now? Get outta this shit hole?"_

_Arching his eyebrows, the Pitmaster cackled with amusement. "Raidin'? So's you can get more cunt? Ain't had enough of it yet? Nah, you ain't goin' nowhere, whelp. Not til Master's had a look at your leavin's. Might let yuh watch, too. Make a good one, you're goin' back down to make another. Fuck it up, and yeah, he'll send yuh."_

"_How can I fuck it up?"_

_A strange expression crossed the Orc's face, one of anger and disgust. "Best you not fuck it up, is all."_

"I have made up my mind," Gandalf said as he woke us all up. I dragged myself out of the dream, tired and relieved that my brain had finally decided to put a stop to the rapes for the time being, even though the alternative wasn't a whole lot less repulsive.

"We will take the right-hand path, for the air is less foul and it is time we began to ascend once more." Leading the way with his staff lit again, Gandalf headed up the steps.

While we walked, I was at Frodo's side when the width of the path allowed it, and he whispered to me that he suspected we were being followed. His eyes were wide and fearful in the dim light of the wizard's staff. Wasn't Gandalf supposed to tell him at the crossroads that Gollum was tracking us? I didn't want to get in trouble for dropping bombshells without prior warning, nor did I want to take a chance on the possibility that Gandalf _didn't_ tell him jack squat.

So I kept my mouth shut, shrugged, and continued on. We camped again in a huge hall, very much like that one in the movie with the rows of gigantic pillars stretching into the distance. Huddled in a corner, we listened to Gimli recite an old chestnut describing the halls we were currently in, except they went on about the 'shining lamps of crystal hewn' making the oppressive darkness all the more weighty. Curling up in my cloak, I drifted off again.

"_Seen Zûrash?" Ûnran asked a passing Uruk as a raiding party returned. They were laden with packs full of whatever goods they took from the village before burning it down. Three terrified blonde women in torn dresses stood huddled together, staring fearfully around. Ûnran gazed at them, and made himself look away. He could smell their fear, and found the scent not to his liking. Knowing what they were here for didn't sit well with him, either._

"_Got hisself kilt," the Uruk gruffly replied without stopping._

_For a moment, Ûnran stood their dumbly, uncomprehending. He shook his head once, twice. It was still there; a tightness in his throat, a sting in his eyes like he'd felt months ago._

_Blinking it away, he turned and left. He didn't realize his clawed hand was tightly clutching the little leather pouch at his hip._

I woke with a start, my eyes spilling over. What was the significance of _that_? What stupid-ass lesson was my brain trying to teach _now_?

"Are you all right?" Legolas asked, apparently on watch at the moment. I hastily wiped my face.

"Yeah, fine."

"I have been told of your dreams," he ventured. "Did you suffer another?"

I felt a little raw at the moment, and didn't much like Elvish prying. "Yes. Just a day in the life of an Orc, I guess. Same old, same old."

"I am not surprised you weep, then," he said in what he probably thought was a solicitous voice. "It is truly admirable that you are able to endure such vileness without going mad."

What, he didn't remember when the Harridans were riding unchecked through Elrond's living room? And I thought Elves had long memories.

Gandalf soon woke the rest of us up, and after breakfast we took off once more. After a little while, the wizard led us to a side chamber we were able to see from a distance because of the light that was shining in it. As we passed through the doorway and I saw the tomb in the center, my blood ran cold.

"Oh god," I breathed, looking around the room. Bones, broken weapons, the dust of who knew how many years... "This is it," I said in a strained voice. "They're coming here. This is where the shit's gonna hit the fan, guys."

"What are you saying?" Gandalf asked, growing alarmed.

"Right here," I went on, my eyes widening with growing terror. I edged toward Sam. Unsurprisingly, when the chips were down, Sam made sure he rescued his cooking utensils from the slimy monster outside. "Gimme your skillet, Gamgee."

"What?" he asked with surprise.

"Hand it over, or I'll knock you on your ass," I growled.

The Hobbit hastily fumbled with his pack and extracted the requested object. Hefting the frying pan and taking a few practice swings, I felt marginally better. "Okay. Here's the deal. Gandalf's going to read from a book, we're going to hear drums, then the room's going to fill with enough Orcs to keep everybody busy for awhile. Plenty for everyone. Unless my source was dead wrong, there's gonna be a cave troll, too. So get ready. Do... whatever prep work you gotta do. I'm gonna hide over here." With that, I ran across the room to a pillar and crouched down behind it.

"Tanith?" Gandalf asked hesitantly.

"Not listening," I called. "I gave you all I have. You figure out the rest."

I assumed they shrugged and carried on, because I heard Gandalf's voice reading from the Book That Ushered in the Beasts from Hell. When he reached the ominous _they are coming_ at the end, I expected the drums to start, but they weren't quite ready yet. Probably still getting the drummers back from having a smoke break.

"This is the Chamber of Mazarbul," Gandalf said. "We are very close now. By my reckoning, we are now on the Seventh Level, six above the gates. Come now, back to the hall!"

_Now_ the drums started up, a long rolling boom that rattled my teeth and echoed around the room. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to find Ûnran. He would know how to handle things. Where the hell _was_ he? Why was I here all alone with a nearly full bladder?

I heard them draw their swords at the same time that a horn from outside the room sounded, followed by what seemed like a million shrill voices and feet pounding down the hall headed straight for us.

"Who comes hither to disturb the rest of Balin Lord of Moria?" Gandalf challenged loudly. I almost crapped. Now you're _taunting_ them? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?

The only answer was a bunch of harsh laughter, like a hundred Zûrashes laughing about Gríma Wormtongue wanking in the breeding pits... Oh shit! _That's_ where I heard that name before! Oh my god... But I couldn't dwell on the repulsive thought for more than a second, because Gandalf unleashed some wizard's wrath into the hallway, blinding them and causing an uproar.

"As Tanith said, there is at least one cave troll, perhaps two," he reported. "Also many Orcs, and even some black Uruks of Mordor. There is no hope of escape that way."

"And no hope at all if they come at the other door as well," Boromir noted.

Wait, what? Other door? Why didn't they say so? Jesus! I was about to leap out of hiding when a great crash against the wedged door revealed a huge arm, shoulder, and foot trying to pry it open and get inside.

Yup, that did it. Peed right down my leg. I hastily dove back behind the pillar.

More scraping and miscellaneous sounds of blades striking something hard and unyielding were followed by a shrill cry of "The Shire!" What must have been the troll bellowed like a wounded elephant, then everything quieted a little.

"One for the Shire!" Strider called out, then another splintering crash resounded. More crashes, each sounding like more of the door was getting destroyed, and my bladder let loose again. I thought I was done, dammit!

Another horn sounded, and _lots_ of feet entered the room. I wanted to close my eyes, but if one of them showed up in my corner, I wouldn't get a tap on the shoulder to alert me to that fact. _Um, excuse me, miss, I believe it's our turn to fight._ I got a double-handed grip on the skillet and trembled in terror.

Listening without watching was probably a hundred times worse, but I didn't care at the moment. They all knew what they were doing, I was dead weight, if I so much as poked my nose out, it would get cut off, better if they didn't feel like they had to pick up my slack or save me from my own ineptitude, just stay down, don't make a sound, it'll all be over soon...

Out of nowhere, an Orc came flying into the wall next to me, and I almost filled my drawers in a more solid way. He shook his head to clear it and stood up to return to the fight, then he saw me.

We just stared at each other for a second. You know that one goblin in the Moria scene that you only see for a second? Great big luminous eyes? Mouth full of sharp teeth? Nostrils between his eyes? Scary as all fuck? I was looking right at him.

Thank god I was standing up; I was actually about a foot taller, which helped immeasurably in the reaction department. If he'd been the size of Boromir, I would have left a shit pile a foot deep underneath me. He hissed at me and raised his sword. I swung the frying pan around like a Louisville Slugger and conked the side of his head hard enough to throw him several feet. He didn't get up again.

Flush with success, I dared a peek around the pillar in time to see a _gigantic_ Orc leap into the room. Well, by comparison. He was probably about Strider's size. He knocked Boromir aside and ducked Strider's attempt to stop him. Hefting a huge spear, he hurled it into the cluster of my friends. I saw Frodo take it and fly into the wall. Before I could react, Strider buried his sword in the Orc's head, spraying brains and black blood all over the floor.

Oh great. Like pissing myself wasn't bad enough, now I was hurling.

"Now!" Gandalf shouted, grabbing the nearest Hobbits and flinging them toward our escape route. "Run for it!"

Strider grabbed Frodo and we all clattered down the stairs. Gandalf stayed up by the door to do his wizardy thing to seal it, I supposed. When Frodo started squirming in Strider's arms, he nearly dropped him.

"I am all right! Put me down!"

"I thought you were dead!" the Ranger cried.

"Questions later!" I yelled. "Run now!"

At the bottom of the stairs, we waited for Gandalf for a few minutes. A bright flash of light preceded him by a minute, during which the drumming stopped.

"I have met my match," the wizard gasped breathlessly, "and nearly been destroyed. Come! We must fly as swiftly as we are able. I can make no light for our passage, I am afraid. I am quite shaken."

Bewildered, I ran with them down dark corridors and stairs. What happened up there? I was so confused, not to mention uncomfortably damp and desperate for a change of pants. None of this was familiar; the fight wasn't anything like the movie, and now we were careening down corridors instead of across a gigantic hall full of pillars and... Okay, I supposed I shouldn't complain about the absence of teeming hordes of Orcs and Goblins, but I was out of sorts and out of my element.

Finally, though, we reached the bottom and Gandalf asked for a rest. _Gandalf_ asked. I was shaken myself now. He finally explained to us what happened upstairs.

"I faced a great force of will and strove against it," he gasped. "But it broke through in the end. I do not know what it was, nor can I guess. Its presence seemed to unsettle even the Orcs in its service, for I believe it must have been their commander."

"Balrog," I suddenly said, and everyone looked at me with fear. "That's what's down here. I didn't think it would be up _there_. I thought... I thought they were really big. Bigger than that room we were in."

"No," Gandalf said wearily. "They are but the height of a man twice over."

"On fire?"

Nodding, he replied, "Yes. They are composed of fire and Shadow. And we must continue, for the level of the gates is near. We must look for an eastward turning very soon."

We hauled ourselves up and took off again. Gandalf received that horrible news amazingly well, I thought. Maybe he believed we still had a chance to get out alive, _all_ of us.

I shook myself. No, fate was a cruel mistress, but she would likely not be happy if I interfered with her business. We'd miss the wizard, sure, but he'd be back and more bad-ass than ever. Suck it up and _run_.

When we reached the bottom, the corridor opened into a huge hall.

"Ah, the Second Hall!" Gandalf called. "And look! Between us and the Orcs is a flaming chasm. Had we come that way, we would have been trapped. Onward! The bridge is near!"

We raced across the hall in the direction Gandalf pointed, pouring on the speed when the sound of drums started up again and arrows began whistling past our heads. I hoped they had _Star Wars_ stormtrooper aim or we were hosed.

The chasm over which the bridge stretched was about as huge, yawning, and black as it could possibly get. I took one look at that bridge and nearly lost it. It looked narrow enough through the filter of movie magic and 'happening to someone else.' Seeing it now in all its two-foot-wide glory, it had 'pitch Tanith's ass into the bottomless pit' written all over it.

Just as we reached it, Legolas freaked right out. "The Balrog is coming!" he cried.

Almost as bad, a couple of trolls dropped huge slabs of stone over the chasm behind us, giving the Orcs a nice gangplank to rush across in the Balrog's wake.

"Holy shit!" I yelled. Grabbing Frodo by the collar, I dragged him to the bridge and started over. I had to let go of him quickly because there was no chance of hanging on to him and both of us making it over the bridge alive. I dimly heard the pounding steps of the others crossing behind me.

Stopping on the other side, I turned to see if everyone got across, but that meant I could see everything coming at us on the other side.

I wanted to faint. Really, I did. If I could blot out that massive wave of Orcs and trolls flowing across the Hall toward the bridge, I wouldn't care if they killed me when I was down. Somehow, my bladder found a bit more to release. You had to admire its dedication in the face of impending doom.

The Balrog, now – that was a piece of work, let me tell you. Jackson's designers weren't even close. The creature didn't have actual physical wings; the seething darkness that enveloped it like a macabre cloud gave the appearance of wings. No horns either, but it was really hard to tell. It seemed almost like a shapeless mass that had somehow worked itself into roughly humanoid shape, but what with the darkness of the hall, the flickering light of all the fire at ground level, and the fire blazing around its body, the eye was easily deceived as to what it _really_ looked like.

Not that you wanted to examine it closely or for very long. It radiated terror and hopelessness like a heatwave that you could almost _see_ billowing out, and almost _feel_ as it hit you in the face. I found myself backing away, numb from the neck up, a hair's breadth from turning and running in a blind panic.

Boys and girls, shit like this don't walk down my street on any given day.

I snapped out of it when Gandalf was in the middle of the arch, facing the most terrifying creature ever imagined.

"You cannot pass!" he roared, and a dead silence filled the hall. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

Couldn't blame the Balrog for blowing _that _threat off, coming from such a tiny foe. Now it seemed like the Balrog's 'wings' of Shadow stretched from one end of the Hall to the other. It stepped onto the bridge and advanced, drawing a sword wreathed in flames. Gandalf brandished a white-gleaming sword, and the two blades slammed into each other with tremendous force.

The Orcs cheered loudly at the impact, then faltered as the Balrog's sword shattered and fell into the abyss. Had I my wits about me, I might have shouted _In your face!_, but I lacked wits at that moment. I was barely keeping my pants shit-free.

"You cannot pass!"

Now the Balrog was nearly up in Gandalf's face, and the wizard banged the end of his staff on the bridge in front of him. A white light so bright we had to shield our eyes erupted between the two of them, then the bridge collapsed, taking the Balrog with it.

I shook my head in anticipatory denial, but still the creature's whip flashed up, it still nailed Gandalf in the legs, and he still got dragged over the edge.

"Fly, you fools!"

So we flew.

* * *

><p>Song Lyric: "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen (version in my mind is the one eloquently sung by the late Jeff Buckley)<p> 


	13. Silver Threads and Golden Needles

**Silver Threads and Golden Needles**

Nobody shouted _Noooooooooooo!_ when Gandalf disappeared over the edge of the broken span. Nobody said a word. All the light in the Hall went out, as if the Balrog grabbed up all the fire and dragged it down into the abyss with it. Even the Orcs were silent for a moment, likely stricken by the defeat of such a powerful creature.

I stood there immobile for several seconds, unable to move, think, or, thank god, piss. Then Strider and Boromir came running off the remains of the bridge. I hadn't even seen them go up there. Damn, they went _back_? Wow. That's some seriously large _cojones_ there.

"Come! I will lead now!" Strider yelled. Boromir grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the exit. "We must obey his last command. Follow me!"

It was slowly sinking in as I ran up a flight of stairs, Boromir damn near pushing me up them. He was gone. Gandalf was really gone. Not even knowing it was temporary soothed that loss. He was kind to me, he put up with my shit, he tried so hard to help me when I needed it...

But_ was_ it temporary? Was this what Zûrash's death was supposed to teach me? That I'd likely blow it off as meaning nothing to me, and it would turn out he was never coming back? Well, son of a bitch, I _wasn't_ blowing it off. I wasn't ignoring it at all. I could barely see where I was going, could barely function in an upright and mobile fashion. Maybe Ûnran could walk away without dissolving in tears, but I couldn't.

The drumming started up again, spurring us on even faster, but it was slower now, almost mournful. The corridor we were racing down suddenly opened into a great hall filled with light from shafts in the ceiling, but I really didn't give a flying fuck about Dwarven architecture anymore. We burst through a set of broken doors into the blazing light coming from the wide-open gates leading out.

I never saw anything so welcome as the view through those gates. Since I was crying already, I didn't need to start up again. Down in the shadows around the door, a small contingent of guards huddled, probably trying to keep from being exposed to the sun. One of them leaped up faster than the others to engage us when we came clattering down the last set of stairs, but Strider wasn't in the mood for Orcish shenanigans and relieved him of his duty with grim finality. The rest sort of squealed like pigs, likely wet themselves, and ran for it.

We poured out of the gates at a dead run, only to find there was yet _another_ ridiculously long stair going down from the gates to a green meadow below. No rocky shelf to collapse on, and no opportunity to lie down and cry like babies, either. Strider kept us moving, and even had Boromir snapping at our heels, until we were far enough away from the gates that even if the Orcs we routed from their guard post found their spines in the dark, they wouldn't be able to shoot us from such a distance.

Then we dropped. I didn't even have the will to change my pants, and just lay there in a urine-soaked pile. The Hobbits were inconsolable, particularly Frodo. He'd agreed to the whole trip through the mine, I remembered, and likely was suffering survivor's guilt. No comparison to _mine_, though.

Maybe if I'd told him... something... like 'taking a step or two back once in awhile could save your life some day,' wink wink nudge nudge. Or maybe 'running like hell is usually a good option.' Shit, why didn't I just say 'a Balrog's gonna kill ya'?

The question was coming, I could almost feel it. I wasn't surprised when Strider crouched next to me.

"Tanith," he said gruffly, as if he was fighting hard not to show his own grief. "Did you know?"

I couldn't look at him, couldn't even speak. I just nodded and curled up in a tighter ball. He patted my shoulder and left.

"We must keep moving," he said after we'd been wallowing in misery for a few minutes. "Come, we have a long road, and much to do."

"In a minute," I sniffled, and went behind a tree and some bushes to take care of my clothing issues. I didn't tell them a thing, and they didn't ask. Probably not necessary.

From our vantage point, Gimli caught sight of a lake below us that got him all excited, so at least _his_ spirits went up. We headed down the road that led out from the gates, and it reminded me of old Roman roads. I'd seen pictures in some of my dad's books of bare earth with the occasional section of bricking to show a well-worn road used to be there. That's sort of what this road looked like. Eventually, we ended up near the lake Gimli saw, and he took Frodo and Sam to have a peek. It was called the Mirrormere, and was apparently a great, amazing sight and I just didn't give a god damn.

"We will follow the road Gandalf intended," Strider told us as we moved on. "Along the Silverlode to where it flows into the Great River, out yonder." He pointed toward a valley below us, beyond which stood a golden cloud, it looked like.

"Lothlórien!" Legolas crowed. "The fairest of all the dwellings of my folk."

"Yes, we are bound for the Golden Wood," Strider acknowledged. "But it is many miles away yet. Let us hasten!"

We could have walked into Mordor and I wouldn't have noticed or cared at that point. I wanted to lie down. Sleep. Cry. Sleep some more. I didn't care what Ûnran had to show me next; I was feeling generous. He could share my nap with me if he really wanted to. Even though he ditched me in Moria, I could forgive and forget. Sure.

I saw what was going on around me in a dull, detached sort of way. I kept hearing things like _You cannot pass!_ and _Fly, you fools!_ in my head. The whip kept coming out of the abyss and grabbing Gandalf's legs, no matter how hard I tried to imagine it missing the mark. Why couldn't that rat bastard's twenty-sider have been cursed to roll failures all the time? Why'd the Balrog have to crit the whip attack? Damn, if it'd been me, I would have rolled a one and strangled myself.

A few hours into our run, Strider finally had us stop by a river so he could have a look at the wounded. I forgot about Frodo and the spear in all the hubbub. Merry and Pippin worked on the fire while Strider examined Sam's head. At some point, the poor little guy got a cut that looked really nasty. I missed that entirely.

"Luck is on your side, Master Samwise!" the Ranger said. "Orc-blades are often poisoned, but it would seem your foe's was not." Setting Gimli to boil some water and setting aside some _athelas_ leaves to treat the wound with, Strider turned to Frodo.

"Now we shall see what the hammer and anvil have done to you." Ignoring Frodo's protestations of being fine, Strider stripped his coat and tunic off, then started with surprise. I smirked.

"Why, here is a pretty Hobbit-skin to wrap an Elven-princeling in!" The others gathered around and looked almost comically awestruck. I think I was the only one not surprised to see the mithril coat he wore.

While they admired Frodo's sparkly underthings, I got up and wandered off a bit. When were the rest of them going to question me? And what was I going to tell them? Even _I_ didn't think letting history run its course was a legitimate reason for not warning anyone what was likely to happen back there. I felt like total shit. Like I'd betrayed Gandalf by keeping my mouth shut.

Jesus, what about Boromir? Holy crap. He may be a bumbling idiot with girls, but he freaking _ran back onto the bridge_ to defend Gandalf from a flipping Balrog. All I had the wherewithal to manage was another warm stream down my leg. Who'd make a better hero, huh? Certainly not the skittle-wielding, diaper-wearing, Orc-dreaming idiot from another world. _That_ kind only gets featured in parodies.

I couldn't eat with the rest of them, or even sit by them. When Strider called for us to move on, I ambled a good distance behind. Maybe I'd get picked up by the Orcs that would undoubtedly come pouring out of the mine at nightfall. Don't the predators always go for the stragglers first?

"You must keep up with us," Boromir said. I hadn't even realized he'd fallen into step with me.

"I can still see you," I muttered dully.

"Yes, but if you are too far behind, we will not be able to come to your aid," he pointed out. "Aragorn wishes us to reach the borders of Lórien as soon as may be."

"I thought you didn't want to set foot in there," I said. He shrugged.

"We have little choice now, it would seem. I will of course follow the will of the Company in this."

"How noble of you," I said under my breath.

"Have you other words to tell?" he said archly. "Those which you disdained to reveal before?"

I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at him. He halted as well and looked challengingly at me.

"Why don't you just come out and say it, Boromir?" I asked tightly. "Say what's on your mind." I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.

"You seem to pick and choose your moments of warning," he snapped, "claiming the motion of history as your reason. The web of fate. What other secrets do you hold to your breast? Who of us will not see the rising of another sun?"

"I... can't... _tell_ you that!" I yelled so loud the rest of the Fellowship halted and looked back in alarm. "Gandalf told me _not_ to! He told me to shut the fuck _up_! He said my knowledge might shift the course of history because big dumbasses like _you_ would try to change what you don't _like_! Every action has an equal and opposite _reaction_! Shit rolls _down hill_! I'm _sorry_, okay? I wish it hadn't happened. I wish I'd said something. I wish he was _still here_. If wishes were horses, fuckers would _ride_! Are you fucking _happy_? Does that make you _feel_ better? Because _I _don't, and I _won't_ feel better _ever again_. So _fuck... OFF_!"

Brushing past him with a rough shoulder-check, I stomped up the road and blew past the rest of them as well. Tears were coming fast and furious, pissing me off more. I wasn't sure if that blow-up was the Brat letting loose, or the Teen having a menstrual meltdown. I know I was a hair trigger for freak-outs and crying jags as a kid, so it could have been either one.

"Tanith!"

"Not listening!" I bellowed over my shoulder. I heard feet running up behind, but didn't much care if it was one of the guys or a pack of Orcs at this point. Either one would get an earful.

"Tanith, please," Frodo said as he joined me. "I am sorry we have been... cold to you. Please forgive us."

I crumpled. Here was a guy who'd known Gandalf for ages, probably thought of him as a second father or something, and he didn't hate me for what I did. It was enough to make you cry. Well, cry some more. I was already well into that.

"I deserve it," I sobbed without breaking stride. "I should have..."

"No," he said firmly. "If Gandalf did not want you to speak of it, then you did as he asked, and I'm not angry with you for that."

"Thanks," I muttered.

"I believe Boromir is stricken," Pippin said as he trotted up on my other side, a note of humor in his voice. "He has never been spoken to in such a manner, and the look of shock on his face is quite amusing."

"Is he blubbering to Strider?" I asked in an amused undertone.

"Not yet," the youngest Hobbit replied mischievously. "I expect when he is able to close his mouth, he will."

* * *

><p>We finally reached the eaves of Lothlórien deep into the night, but Strider didn't let us have more than a brief rest before plunging into the woods. I was close to rebelling when he let us stop a minute so Legolas could scout out a tree for us to sleep in. I wasn't too keen on that idea, considering how acrophobic I was. At least I had the right to say that no matter how lofty the height, I'd never peed my pants <em>there<em>. Apparently it was zombies, trolls, Balrogs, and shit-tons of Orcs that released the flood gates, not heights. Yay me.

While we kicked around waiting on him, Legolas apparently stirred a hornet's nest of Elves up there, because all of a sudden there were melodious voices laughing and calling down to us. Our token Elf chatted with them for a few, then reported that we a) breathed loud enough to be shot in the dark, and b) had nothing to fear. How these two things were not contradictory, I had no idea.

Legolas and Frodo were invited to climb up a rope ladder into the dizzying heights above, and just watching their dim outlines slowly disappear with distance in the gloomy canopy nearly made me fall over from a vertigo attack. Turning to Strider, I pointed up after them.

"Hell... _no_."

"I trust the alternative would not be to your liking," he said sympathetically. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but his expression seemed to soften a little. "Tanith, I am sorry. My grief made me treat you harshly. I oft forget the burden _you_ bear."

"I wouldn't call it a _burden_, exactly," I protested. "I just don't want to screw everything and everyone in a ten thousand mile radius. Even a little slip-up could be..."

"The end of all things," he finished. "You warned us in the Chamber of Mazarbul. Why?"

Shifting uncomfortably, I shrugged. "I knew everyone would live through that fight. Wasn't so sure about _me_ living through it."

Something seemed to dawn on the Ranger as he took a deep breath and nodded. "I see. You were afraid."

"Terrified."

"Do you wish to continue on?" he asked gently. "I suspect the Elves would welcome you here for a time, if you did not."

I slowly shook my head. "If I live through this, Strider... I'll be glad. It'll be... something to remember. If I stay behind, I'll regret it forever. The story sounds much better as 'I remember when I marched into Mordor...' than it does as 'When they came back and told me what happened...'"

He nodded again, and gripped my shoulder briefly. "Have you an answer for why you did _not_ warn us..."

"Strider, I _did_. I told Gandalf and all the rest of you there was a Balrog down there. I just didn't... tell the rest," I said, my voice trailing off into an ashamed mumble. "And I am _so sorry_."

"That I will accept," he said. "You did tell us that much. Did... all occur as fated?"

"Yeah. Just... exactly the way it was supposed to," I replied miserably.

"Then we must carry on," he said firmly. "With you or without you, the result would have been the same. You are not to blame." Tilting my face up to look at him, he said, "Not I, nor anyone else, will lay blame upon your shoulders."

"Thanks, Dad," I mumbled. He smiled wryly, patting my cheek.

About then, Legolas came climbing back down.

"They have consented to play host to us for the night," he said. "The Hobbits will rest up yonder with them, and the rest of us will climb the next tree. Come! It is a long climb."

"I've no desire to sleep among the branches of trees," Gimli growled.

"You and me, both," I offered.

"They have seen great companies of Orcs pass by on the way to Moria in just the last few days," Legolas explained as we gathered at the foot of the offending tree. "We caused enough stir in the mines to urge pursuit for vengeance. We must trust to concealment above, for we would not fare well upon the ground."

Oh, sure. Mention _that_. I supposed that given the choice of being caught on the ground by an ass-load of Orcs or risking my neck climbing up into a damn tree, the threat of plummeting to my death held more appeal. At least _that_ would be quick.

Because Gimli griped first, he also got to ascend first. Poor bastard had obviously never climbed into a treehouse before. He was swaying and swinging precariously all over the place, which was funny until he was something like thirty feet off the ground, then I couldn't seem to find the humor in it anymore. I had my hands clasped together under my chin and kept sucking air through my teeth every half minute, dancing from foot to foot, convinced he was going to be one large grease slick on the ground any minute.

Legolas followed, then Boromir and Strider voted (so they said) and it was my turn. Under normal circumstances, I'm sure the Brat would have made a comment about them wanting a peek up my skirt (I was wearing pants, so that remark wouldn't have had the same impact). Keeping my eyes fixed on the dark branches above, I started to climb. I couldn't see the platform I was supposedly aiming for. The movie didn't have this shit; there were walkways and spiral stairs going up the tree trunks. There were pavilions and tents on the flipping _ground_, for god's sake. There weren't any _flets_ or you're-fuckeds or whatever these things were. I could almost feel the earth getting farther away, and yet the _flet_ wasn't getting any closer. My palms began to sweat, and I suddenly believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that my hands would slip and I'd fall. Or my boot would slip off the rope step and I'd fall. Or the wind would blow just right and I'd fall. Or... or...

And I couldn't move. I clung so tightly to the rope ladder, I might as well announce our wedding plans.

"Tanith," Gimli called down. His voice sounded miles away. "Just take hold of the rung above your hand. One rung above."

"I... I can't," I whispered. I didn't know if he could hear me. I didn't care. Loud noises were likely to make me fall, too.

"Come along, now," he said gently. "One rung up. You can do it."

I shook my head vigorously, but that caused the ladder to sway a little, and I whimpered.

"No one can get on the ladder with you," he said reasonably. "The longer you stay there, the longer Aragorn and Boromir will be on the ground. They say Orcs are likely to come, and there'll be many of them. _Too_ many for just the two of them. They need to be up _here_, but you're in the way. Best get _out_ of the way."

Swallowing hard, I forced myself to look up again, and now that my eyes were more accustomed to the darkness, I could make out Gimli's face above, peering through a hole in a shadowy platform. Focusing on his twinkling eyes, I made a quick grab for the next rung.

"That's it," he said approvingly. "One at a time."

The rest of the climb was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life. Given the choice, in retrospect, I think I would have been more on board with a one-woman frontal assault on Sauron's throne room. I shivered in Gimli's arms for a good ten minutes at least, and probably had the impression of his steel-ringed coat on my cheek for the rest of the night. Strider and Boromir came up much faster than I did, like that was a challenge, and soon the five of us were bedding down. I finally noticed that the platform had no safety rails or seat belts or personal restraint devices of any kind.

That settled it: propriety be damned as I wedged myself between Gimli and Strider. I wasn't so far gone that I'd partner up with Boromir. I remembered him peeking. Sorry, dude. These ladies ain't free.

Once I was nestled in with walls of man-flesh on every side, I let myself relax. How long had it been since I last slept? Almost two days now? We hadn't done more than take a breather a few times since leaving the mine. It seemed that as soon as I acknowledged it, my entire system shut down like someone flipped off the switch.

_Ûnran sat at a table by himself, watching his clawed finger push the bones around in small circles. He noted the Warg, its depression crudely augmented with scratches that resembled teeth. The goat, with its straight horns... the aurochs with curved horns... the horse's smooth back... He'd never seen any of these creatures, though he'd heard more of Wargs than the others._

_He suddenly went rigid and curled his lip when he sensed the presence of another. A burly Uruk dropped onto the bench opposite him._

"_Whatcha wanna wager?" he growled, piercing yellow eyes sizing up his opponent._

_Scowling, Ûnran said nothing. The Uruk sneered and made a grab for the bones._

_The younger Uruk was off his bench and across the table in a heartbeat, roaring like a feral beast. The bones were scattered far in the tumult, but Ûnran was focused on the offending Uruk and didn't notice. In moments the Uruk lay in a pool of blood, chest and throat torn open, yellow eyes staring sightless at the ceiling._

_Breathing heavily, Ûnran nearly panicked in his frantic search for the four pieces. Gathering them up, counting them several times to make sure he had them all, he secured them in the pouch and tied it tightly to his belt. Casting a single cold look at the dead Uruk, he stalked out of the hall._

My body jerked me out of the dream again, and I just lay there staring up at the leaves. Again, I didn't know what to make of it, what lesson I was supposed to learn, what symbol I was supposed to interpret. What was it? Never touch another man's dice? Check. Lesson learned.

It took a little while to fall asleep again after that. He was getting meaner. Turning into a cold-blooded killer. Was that what fate awaited me?


	14. Pleasures of the Flesh

**Pleasures of the Flesh**

Nothing says 'go lesbian' like waking up to four grown men who haven't washed thoroughly in weeks, have been running hard or otherwise vigorously exercising for days, and are clustered nearly on top of you. All I needed now was that classic beans scene from _Blazing Saddles_, and I'd be switching my membership card.

Scratch that, _three_ grown men. Legolas, being an _Elf_, smelled as fresh as daisies. Fucker.

Unfortunately, even though the sun was starting to filter through the leaves, and the guys were stirring, there was still the precipitous drop of a million miles on all sides and one spot in the middle. I didn't want to move, breathe, or speak for fear of tumbling to a splattering end off the edge. And I _really_ had to pee. You wouldn't think I had any left after Moria, but alas, them kidneys had no reason to shut down production.

The descent was even more harrowing than the ascent, because now it was daylight and I could actually see how far away the ground was and how small our tiny little insectoid Hobbit friends were down there, waiting for us. And did I mention that I had to pee? This time it took the combined efforts of Gimli, Strider, and Legolas to talk me down. Boromir tried, but I loosed a high-pitched volley of _fuck you_s at the insufferable man that shut him right up.

By the time I reached the ground, a small group of Elves had gathered, and they looked at me in an annoyingly pitying way when I fell face-down on the ground and tried to hug the grass.

One of the Elves introduced himself as Haldir and I had to do a double-take. He looked _zero_ like his actor. Not nearly as fleshy (i.e. _healthy_) in the face. In fact, he looked almost emaciated. But then, all these Elves had the appearance of people who would greatly benefit from a trip to an all-you-can-eat buffet. And one of those men's retreats, assuming they gave each other the male equivalent of make-overs at those things. Teach them how to go a few days without shaving. Maybe let the occasional tangle get in their hair, or hell, live a little: get a lousy haircut 'on accident.' Attend seminars on how to leave their shirts untucked or re-wear jeans of questionable cleanliness. Anything, man. Jesus.

Haldir led us along a path that paralleled the Silverlode as it wound its way through the forest under what they were calling _mallorn_ trees. It took a little while, but I realized I was tramping over smallish footprints. Looking questioningly at Strider, his expression turned grim.

"Orcs," he said. "They were seen by our companions in the other tree. They did not enter Lórien unanswered."

I clammed up on that ominous note. For a brief moment, I wondered what became of the Orc I clunked on the head with the skillet. I doubted I killed him; while it's _possible_, it was really unlikely. I'm not _that_ strong, adrenalin notwithstanding. Inexplicably, I hoped he was taking a ribbing from his friends over the undignified defeat, not lying face-down in this river with a dozen Elvish arrows in his back.

Next thing I knew, Haldir was having us line up to cross a rope bridge. Not one of those jungle affairs with slats of wood. I mean, quite literally, a _rope_ bridge. Like tightrope walking sort of rope bridge. Out of deference to the non-Elves in the group (which was _most_ of us, thanks for noticing), he obligingly strung a couple of other ropes across the river for us to hold onto.

It was likely that everyone now expected me to throw a fit over the crossing, but I actually didn't have a problem with it. The water was rushing only a couple of feet below me. Not a couple of _miles_. Sure, it was a little dizzying to see the tumbling water moving under me, knowing I wasn't personally going sideways. I'd walked across gang planks through spinning tunnels in fun houses before; this was nothing. Sam was the one who had the most trouble. Probably had an inner ear thing going on.

"Now, friends, you have entered the Naith of Lórien," Haldir informed us once we were all assembled on the east side of the river. "As was agreed, Gimli the Dwarf must go blindfolded for a time."

"I did not agree to such conditions," Gimli flared. "I am no spy or servant of the Enemy, and I will not consent to being treated as one."

There was a bit of arguing back and forth, until Strider had to lay down the law and declare we'd _all_ be blindfolded. Over the grumblings of the Dwarf and Legolas whining about being an Elf and therefore exempt from such treatment, Haldir and his buddies covered our eyes. As soon as darkness descended on me, I cursed myself for not being in among the Hobbits. I was standing right next to Boromir, and would now likely have to rely on him a bit for balance as we trekked.

Haldir positioned one of our hands on the shoulder of the person in front, then led us deeper into the woods. God, I hoped Boromir was in front of me. Haldir and Merry got into a conversation about the Grey Havens as we stumbled awkwardly along. We walked for hours and hours, it seemed, until the cooler air of evening began to chill me. Our guide called a halt, and we settled down to camp for another night. The blindfolds didn't come off, but I really didn't care, I was so worn out. When were we going to get to Galadriel and... whatever her husband's name was? And hopefully pillow-stuffed pavilions on a nice little clearing next to a bubbly stream? Like in the movie?

I didn't know who I slept next to that night, since everyone smelled equally like ass, including myself. My sleepy-time entertainment was of Ûnran back in training. He barely said a word to his new partner past the perfunctory things you _have_ to say to get the job done. There always seemed to be chatter when it was Zûrash. If he turned just right, I could see that little pouch bouncing on his hip. Sometimes when he took a breather, he'd clutch it, like a touchstone. Seeing that made me wake up crying, as if Zûrash was real, and the loss of him still profound. I supposed in a way it was. One could argue that in this weird Orcish paradigm, he was like Gandalf, sort of a mentor, and while I knew the real Gandalf was coming back in no time, it didn't really diminish the pain all that much. I had to look at the grief-stricken faces whenever it hit someone in the group that yes, Gandalf's _dead_. I couldn't tell them anything different, not at this point. What would get screwed up in the process? What _wouldn't_? I didn't know. So I had to watch my friends suffering a terrible loss, and stand helplessly by while Ûnran dealt with _his_ loss in the only way he knew how. And I couldn't give _any _of them the comfort they needed to get through this.

* * *

><p><em>Eventually<em>, and I'm serious when I say that, we were released from blind purgatory. Haldir was a little suspicious of me when he told us that word had reached the Lord and Lady from Rivendell of the people in our company, and apparently I wasn't mentioned. Thanks, Elrond. Where the hell did you _think_ I went when I disappeared? Could you have troubled yourself to ask your daughter? Does _nobody_ listen to their kids around here?

My first impression of Lothlórien was _fuuuuuuuuuuck_. It was breathtaking. Delicate white and yellow flowers grew everywhere, and there were so many of those white-barked, golden-leaved _mallorn_ trees the air practically _glowed_ from the sun's reflection off the leaves. The sky was a cloudless blue, the grass a rich green. Nearby a large hill was topped with almost a birthday candle array of trees around one gigantic _mallorn_ of prodigious girth. Way (oh god) up in the branches there was a huge _flet_ that said _Yes, you will have to climb up to me, you sorry excuse. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!_

"We have come to Cerin Amroth," Haldir informed us, "and here we will rest awhile."

I eased my sore body onto the soft green grass and sort of flopped over on my back. I could stare up into that flawless sky forever. Everyone else followed suit, until we looked like a bunch of debris washed up on shore. A bunch of debris from a sunken garbage scow, that is. Wow, if these Elves didn't come up with bathtubs and loofah sponges soon, they'd have only themselves to blame.

Haldir took Frodo and Sam on a walk up into the trees on the crest of the hill, but I couldn't move. The whole place felt like a fairy tale, and I didn't want it to end. Not even a happily ever after. Just... continued existence in the throes of a comfortable story. One without monsters, if you please.

Though... that thought troubled me a touch. Not that I wanted monsters to suddenly storm the hill we were draped on, but... Technically, wasn't Ûnran a monster? If, for the sake of argument, he was real, what would I do? Would I stand there and do nothing while my friends slaughtered him? I didn't have a ready answer. Could he be something more, something... better? Because now I was in the same boat with Frodo, or the one he'd be in by the time _Return of the King_ rolled around. Looking at Gollum as the worst case scenario. If Smeagol didn't win that power struggle, there'd be no hope for anyone else afflicted with Ring-envy. Same for me. If Ûnran couldn't resist the temptation to indulge his baser instincts, then _I_ wouldn't come out of this unscathed either, would I? I'd turn into _him_, killing someone just for touching my stuff. Because if you kill enough, it gets easier. You stop caring _who_ or _what _you're killing. You start thinking that just because it's ugly and you don't understand it, you have every right to kill it, its family, all its friends, and anyone who ever passed it in the hall and waved hello.

Then you tell two friends about it, and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on... until every last Orc in Middle Earth is put to the sword, and not a damn person in the world gives a shit that it happened. You get _my_ world, where we don't even _know_ if there ever _were_ any Orcs because they've been wiped off the face of the planet.

All disturbing thoughts, and I didn't want to think them anymore. They just gave me a headache.

Apparently everyone but me had more energy after sundown, because as soon as it started getting dark, Haldir urged us back on our feet and we continued. I was beginning to wonder if this blasted city of his was a figment of someone's twisted imagination. As the daylight faded, though, the streetlights came on, so to speak. Everywhere, Elves were lighting lamps both on the ground level and up in the trees on their god damned _flets_, so the branches looked to be filled with fireflies.

I'd never seen trees so _tall_. Postcards showing the great redwood forests of the west coast, with their trunks so huge the parks department cut tunnels through them for roads, was nowhere in the ballpark of these _mallorns_ in the heart of Lothlórien. I wondered if we left _our_ trees alone for thousands of years at a stretch, they'd grow this tall too.

Naturally, because we were exhausted and desperately in need of alcoholic beverages, not to mention baths, we reached the city on the _northern_ side where nobody saw fit to put a door. Either someone paid off the fire inspectors, or they took the contractor with the lowest bid and this was the result.

"Here is the city of the Galadhrim where dwell the Lord Celeborn and Galadriel, Lady of Lórien," Haldir announced grandly. "But we cannot enter here. We must travel round to the southern side of the city to gain entrance."

Dragging my feet all the way, I grumbled under my breath my dearest wishes, those being hot bath, hot food, and perhaps a foot massage. The last was added as recompense for the stupid extra hike. I would have happily vaulted the wall right there if they'd provided a means to do it. I don't require grand entrances. Tumbling across the grass in a graceless heap is fine with me. I'm not fussy.

I suppose the view was lovely, what with all the lanterns and lamps sparkling and flashing through the swaying branches and fluttering leaves. Actually, it was pretty much enchanting, and I found myself experiencing once more that childlike wonder I felt at the hill, before troublesome thoughts of Orcs intruded. It was like walking in a dream. Not one of_ my_ dreams, obviously.

Before I knew it, we reached that southern gate and passed through. By now I was dead on my feet. I felt reasonably sure that if a bath were offered, I'd summon the will to go on, but nothing else would do it. So what do you think Haldir said when we halted?

"Here dwell Celeborn and Galadriel," he intoned solemnly, gesturing up into the heavens. "It is their wish that you ascend and speak with them."

Ascend. Really. I slowly looked up to where he was pointing, and came face-to-trunk with the granddaddy of all frickin' _mallorn_ trees. Glaring at Haldir, I wanted so badly to give him an earful of Achmed the Dead Terrorist: "_I __**kill**__ you!"_

Alas, I had to suck it up _again_. That was the thing about Middle Earth: there was a lot of suck, and a _hell_ of a lot of sucking. None of it the _good_ kind, either, so let's not host a men's retreat here, okay? That'd be false advertising.

Haldir, Frodo, and Legolas went up first, taking a ladder that looked too flimsy to hold Kate Moss, let alone any of us. Next went the rest of Team Short, leaving me with the Three Stooges. Now all three of them wanted a peek up my skirt. Fine. That ass ain't been washed in weeks: have a good time, boys.

Ah Jesus... I was about to meet Galadriel, one of the most important Elves of all, bearer of Nenya, Sister Golden Hair Surprise, and I smelled like the south end of a north bound camel.

The ladders had frequent meltdown stops on _flets_ all the way up, thank goodness. I was able to huff and puff and blow the house down in a panic attack at least twenty times before reaching the top. And I didn't miss a single one, either. I should get extra points for that. Unlock an achievement or something.

Once I was in front of the Lord and Lady, I felt hopelessly filthy and radiantly blessed at the same time. They were quite literally shiny, happy people. The thought almost stirred the Singer from her slack-jawed snoring to scramble for the lyric sheets.

Celeborn greeted each of our Company as if welcoming old friends, even Gimli who, being a Dwarf, had received the most grief from the march wardens or whatever Haldir and his band of merry men were called. When he got to me, I bowed my head in shame. I was the tag-along, the stow-away, and pretty much about as useful as ballast, if that.

"Welcome, Tanith Walker, named Shaper by Iarwain Ben-adar, oldest and fatherless," he said warmly, and I looked up with surprise. Who the hell was _that_? "Elrond spoke of you, but did not say you were to be among the Fellowship."

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say to that, if I should answer him or not. Apparently not, because he moved on to the next person in line. Glancing up to the dais, I caught Galadriel's eye. She looked at me as if she knew all my secrets, even the embarrassing ones. But especially the Orkish ones.

When they started talking about Gandalf, I shut down completely. Retreated into a little hole. I didn't want to revisit this, even though I knew the Elves here needed to know. Maybe Galadriel's wash basin would tell her the things I couldn't. Maybe if Gandalf knew what kind of trouble he'd get into, he would have lifted the ban on revelations. Would it hurt, really, if I told them he was coming back? Maybe I was supposed to shape _this_... or reshape Boromir's fate. Yes, I was pissed at him beyond all reason, but he didn't deserve to _die_.

"Your quest stands upon the edge of a knife," Galadriel said, and the familiarity of the words broke me out of my brooding distraction. "Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while all the Company is true."

Her piercing gaze stabbed each one of us, and I shivered in anticipation of my turn. What would she see? What would she _say_? I didn't know which was worse: the dreams, or the betrayal.

Turns out, she didn't say a word, just _stared_ for several seconds. But that look packed a wallop, let me tell you. I felt stripped bare, not in the physically naked sense, but in the emotional/mental sense. It was horribly unsettling. But at least that was the extent of our suffering; soon after the staring contest, she smiled.

"Let not your hearts be troubled, for tonight you shall sleep in peace," she said gently.

Celeborn bowed slightly. "Lodging has been prepared for you below, and refreshment laid out. We will speak again on the morrow."

I couldn't believe my luck: we were going back to the ground! Ah, sweet! This time, descending wasn't quite so bad, knowing that once we hit the earth, we were there to stay for awhile. Hopefully, our hosts wouldn't require us to drag our asses back up the tree 'on the morrow' for tea and cakes. And the 'refreshment' Celeborn promised involved scrubbing brushes and copious amounts of hot water.

Once we were back on solid, welcoming dirt, I was taken in hand by a couple of (hopefully) lady Elves who led me to an enclosed pavilion. Christ's knickers, there was a tub in there! I almost cried. I lost all inhibitions and stripped as quickly as I could. Those ladies could have been men, and I wouldn't care. While I basked and scrubbed and scraped, my attendants spirited away the locker room-scented pack I'd been toting since Rivendell, and left a silky robe behind for me to change into. Gratitude actually surfaced without prompting, and I didn't care if it was dress-like this time. It was _clean_. Dear god, make sure those boys get hosed off, too. Their stink might rub off on me.

The water was so delicious, I nearly fell asleep in the tub. With great reluctance, I stepped out and dried off. The robe hugged my curves quite nicely. Apparently, Elves don't have them. Not like humans, anyway. And for once, I was wearing something with a little bit of cleavage showing. Hot damn.

Not that I'm an exhibitionist, mind you. It's just nice, once in awhile, to feel sexy. A little. Around the edges. Not for anyone in particular. Just... for me.

Anyway, I returned to our little encampment pretty late, and barely acknowledged that most of the gang was still out getting themselves properly laundered. I made a beeline for the tent assigned to me, and sank into those pillows and quilts like they were quicksand.

_Ûnran crept from shadow to deeper shadow along the walkway, working his way up to the surface. The barracks were no place for privacy, Ûnran learned early, and the soldiers quarters were useless for cleaning. He truly hated being filthy, yet found himself quickly reaching an intolerable degree of it faster than he liked. The barracks floor was a slimy mess from all the sweat, bodily waste, and spilled seed. To lie in such putrescence was to wear it as a mantle until an opportunity arose to remove it. Each rest he took painted a new layer of it upon his body until he could stand it no longer, a point he had reached tonight._

_Once on the surface, Ûnran drew a deep breath of the fresher air. He hadn't filled his lungs with it since that first, and last, time he was up top, turning his face to the sun with a sigh of pleasure and feeling its warmth for the first time. Looking around now, he spotted a stream trickling off into the darkness, and loped in that direction._

_The stream was like most of the other pathetically thin seeping wounds across the valley of the Isen, the mighty river now dammed up and diverted. Ûnran checked once more to make certain there were no others anywhere near, none even within sight. Satisfied that he was truly alone for the first time since he could remember, he stripped._

_Squatting naked by the shallow water, he scrubbed his ragged clothing against the rocks, trying to clean at least the worst of the grime from the fabric. After laying his things out to dry, he moved into the stream itself and used a rock to scrape the dirt off his hide._

_The water was ice cold, but refreshing. He still winced when working on his back; there were many stripes that hadn't healed well, for he couldn't reach them with his own hands. A greater challenge was his hair. It was long and thick, coarse and locked in matted strands reaching halfway down his back. The most he'd ever been able to do was to get it wet and work the water down to the scalp with his strong fingers. He soaked and wrung out the strands repeatedly, until he was reasonably satisfied that they were clean enough. Then he returned to the bank and sat down, allowing the night breezes to dry his hide._

_There was no moon that he could see, but many stars. As his body dried and warmed, Ûnran felt the stirrings of arousal, and growled low in his chest. Curling his lip with annoyance, he roughly dealt with it. The pleasure was visceral and momentary, leaving him empty as it always did. When he finished, he folded his arms on his raised knees, lowered his forehead to rest upon his arms, and wept bitterly._

My eyes blinked open on a night sky pocked with stars. Sitting up, I looked around, just to make sure I was in Lothlórien, not Isengard. I found it somewhat unsettling that I was more saddened than disgusted by watching an Orc jerk off.

Okay, so apparently my little Orc friend was just as obsessed with personal hygiene as I was. The rest of it, though... In all honesty, I often felt a little... randy, shall we say? I might have done the same thing in the tub if there hadn't been a pair of Elves nearby. Getting clean from top to bottom after so long was definitely a _very_ pleasurable experience. And if anyone knows how to 'take care of business,' it's a twenty-six-year-old virgin.

Interesting thing, though. Normally, Ûnran's skin was nearly black. It could have been the crappy lighting in Isengard, but he was _really_ dark. After he washed, though, even in the gloom of middle night, he seemed more reddish-brownish. Not that I was quibbling about shades; it was just interesting-in-a-yucky-way that the pits were so god-awful gross they left the residents looking like tar babies.

Damn, it seemed that whenever I came out of a dream like that, I thought of it as true, and Ûnran as real, for several minutes afterward. I had to shake myself back into reality. The Orc was just an extension of my fears, not only of what I expected to meet, but what I was afraid to do or experience. Maybe he was a view into my wilder nature, the aspect that might pursue basic pleasure no matter who's watching.

Except he went about as far out of his way as he possibly could to pursue said pleasure. I probably would have done the same. I wouldn't want anyone walking in on _me_, either.


	15. Killin's Too Good For'im

**Killin's Too Good For'im**

The days blended in a subtle dance of light, rest, and soft voices. The Elves of Lothlórien seemed to be the most contemplative of their brethren, so there wasn't much chance of a hoe-down like I'd stirred up in Rivendell. The folks did sing, but because of the recent fall of Gandalf, it was mostly songs of mourning. Not exactly dirges, but sad all the same.

I surprised our hosts with daily entreaties to bathe. Apparently, they didn't expect such behavior of a human. Well, sweeties, I'm going to be leaving this place at some point, going to far away lands with minimal opportunities to spit-shine my nethers, so I'm living it up while I've got the chance.

Most of our time spent there was in silence or speaking quietly so not to disturb anyone. After awhile, it was like being in a library or a church. The only harsh noises I heard were in my dreams when Ûnran was training or just hanging out in the raucous environment of Isengard.

Once I saw him trying to get some sleep in a room full of Uruk-hai, many of whom had evidently been out on a raid recently and were regaling everyone with their exploits. Much hootin' and hollerin' going on. I was surprised to see Ûnran huddled in a corner of the barracks, away from everyone, back to the wall and watching warily. You could argue that the 'normal' behavior of these creatures was pack-oriented. I saw them in pairs or trios tending to one another's hurts or grooming, almost like a load of apes. Ûnran's behavior might be classified as abnormal in that context.

One Uruk in this particular barracks seemed to be an alpha male, knocking heads and pushing the rowdier ones around. Really big bastard, too. When he was on the prowl, Ûnran nearly sank into the floor. I didn't think an Uruk of his size could fold up that small. I wondered if this alpha had been after him before.

'Luckily,' as I slept on helplessly, the alpha overlooked Ûnran completely and assaulted someone else. This wasn't anything like the attack on Ûnran, somewhat in a secluded place, done almost privately. The hapless victim was raped in the middle of the barracks floor, with an audience of something like thirty Uruk-hai, all cheering and jeering, some even throwing garbage at the poor bastard. And it was violent, too. I'd never in my life seen anything so brutal, not even when it happened to Ûnran. As if that wasn't bad enough, when the alpha finished, shoving the Uruk away from him like yesterday's trash, six or seven others jumped the guy and had _their_ fun.

I could _not_ get out of the damn dream, either. I kept hoping I'd snap out of it, but something was keeping me there. My brain being a total rat bastard, I suppose. When I focused on Ûnran, he was staring at the spectacle like an accident victim going into shock. Or a child who has just seen his parents murdered _and_ gutted _and_ beheaded right in front of him, and knows if he makes any noise at all, he'll be next.

Helpless. Utterly helpless. He couldn't do anything, couldn't go anywhere, couldn't fight, couldn't run. Neither could I. Once I got that, once that bit was understood, _then_ my brain cut me loose, and I woke gasping for air like I'd been drowning. Then of course I had to vomit for about twenty minutes.

I vowed never to take a nap during the day again after that.

It wasn't more than a couple of days after that horrible dream that I ran across Frodo and Sam wandering around chatting about Elf magic. I wondered if Frodo got a peek in the Mirror yet.

"Hey," I called, and they smiled. I fell into step with them. "Nice place, huh?"

"Most certainly," Frodo agreed. "Like walking in a dream, at times." He must have realized his choice of words might be uncomfortable for me, and shot me an apologetic look.

Shrugging, I said, "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"I was just saying as I'd like to see some Elf-magic," Sam said, bringing me up to speed. "Have you seen aught of the Lord and Lady these many days? I've not."

"Me neither," I agreed. "Not that I'm complaining. If the only way to see them involves climbing up to the moon, I'll pass."

Frodo laughed. "I wonder that you didn't go mad in Moria, with all those bottomless pits."

"It was dark, and I didn't look down," I said a little sniffily. "I have a legitimate phobia that has gone unresolved all my life, and I have no interest in 'fixing' it now."

"Then I will not urge you to do so," Frodo replied with a grin. Sighing, he said, "I hope very much that before we leave, we shall see the Lady again."

Like the Spanish Inquisition, which nobody expects either, Galadriel came gliding up to us along the path. Her eyes scanned us, as if she was checking the attendance sheet. Apparently deciding that all were present and accounted for, she crooked her finger, beckoning us, then turned and silently walked away. We exchanged bewildered looks, then followed.

There it was. She led us into a hedge-enclosed garden, down into a hollow of sorts, and there in the center was a tree-shaped pedestal with the silver basin sitting on it. I wondered if I'd get a peek in there, and perhaps see something that would explain how I got here, why I _was_ here, and maybe, just _maybe_ why I was experiencing the weirdest id manifestation ever known.

Without saying a word, Galadriel filled the basin from a nearby stream. "Here is the Mirror of Galadriel. I have brought you here to look in it, if you wish."

"What will we see?" Frodo asked nervously.

"The Mirror will show that which I command it to reveal," Galadriel replied. "It may also show things unbidden, often strange yet profitable visions. What _you_ will see, I cannot tell, for it shows things that were, and things that are, and things that yet may be. Not even the Wise may know which is shown. Do you wish to look?"

Frodo hesitated, looking uneasy, but Sam readily volunteered. He wanted to see if anything exciting was happening back home, he said.

Peering into the smooth surface of the water, Sam at first looked disappointed, then he gasped. I instinctively took a step backwards.

"That Ted Sandyman's a-cutting down trees on the road to Bywater!" he cried indignantly. After a moment, he wailed, "I must go home! They've dug up Bagshot Row and turned out my old gaffer! I must go home!"

I remembered the vision Frodo saw in the Mirror in the movie, and realized that must be what Sam was seeing. Images of the Shire enslaved by Orcs and in flames... Yeah, I'd want to go home and kick some ass, too.

"Would you return alone without your master?" Galadriel asked mildly. "The Mirror shows many things, not all of which have come to pass. Do not use the Mirror as a guide of deeds; some events never come to be, unless you stray from your path to prevent them."

Sam dropped sullenly on the ground and grumbled to himself. The Lady turned back to Frodo.

"Will you now look, Frodo?"

Nodding, Frodo stepped up to the pedestal and peeked over the rim of the basin. He looked for a long time before any reaction came, then all of a sudden his breathing quickened and he began leaning forward, getting closer to the surface, a look of profound distress on his face.

"Do not touch the water," Galadriel warned softly. Her voice seemed to break whatever spell had taken hold, and Frodo straightened. "I know what you saw, for it is also on my mind. Fear no Enemy here, Frodo. Lothlórien is well defended."

Extending her arms, she seemed to glow in the moonlight. Honestly, I was looking, and I didn't see her ring. There wasn't even a tan line or depression around any of her fingers to show she wore one all the time. I just about cursed Jackson for pulling yet another whopper out of his bag of tricks, when she smiled at Frodo.

"Yes, your eyes see that which is hidden," she said. "You who are the Ring-bearer, and one who has seen the Eye. This is Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, and I am its keeper."

Nope. Still not seeing it. Shrugging, I glanced down at the water myself. I wasn't invited to look yet, but it was like a magnet drawing me closer. My foot slid a touch nearer. What would _I_ see, I wondered? It suddenly hit me that I didn't want to know anything more about Ûnran or why I was seeing him. This was my one big chance: I wanted to see my folks. Maybe one or two of my friends. Were they worried about me? Did they even know I was gone? Was my sister still shoving her ass in drunken men's faces for sweaty dollar bills tucked in her g-string?

Before I knew it, I was leaning over the basin myself, and the water was black. My brow furrowed. Maybe she had to say a password or push a button somewhere... then it cleared.

At first, it was like seeing scenes from the movie. There were Orcs running... No, scratch that... _Uruk-hai_ running at a steady clip through a forest. Most of them wore helmets, and their armor rattled and clanked, and they all huffed and grunted as they ran. Then I saw plains, endless rolling plains all around. The sky was dark, like twilight. There wasn't anyone around, just me alone in a sea of tall grasses, and the loneliness of it was terrifying, like crap was going to leap out of the ground at me. A shadow passed over the Mirror, and it was day, and the tower of Orthanc loomed above. All around me, the valley was flooded. Steam billowed up from the drowned pits. Here and there, Ents strode about, finishing off any Orcs that survived the first wave.

Then I saw myself standing in an old forest, much like the one the Hobbits dragged me through way back when I first got here. An Uruk was there as well, and getting closer. I was up against a tree and couldn't go anywhere. I couldn't see his face, but I could see mine, and I looked...

I tore myself away from the Mirror, staggering backwards until I ran out of room and hit the wall of the hollow. Being a sloping rim, I fell straight on my ass and sprawled in a most undignified way. My breath was coming in gasps, and my whole body trembled. Frodo and Sam rushed to my side.

"Are you all right?" Frodo asked.

Clasping his hand tightly, I stared up in his face and just blinked, unable to speak for a moment. How could I...

"Tell me, child, what you saw," Galadriel said gently, kneeling before me.

It took several deep breaths to calm myself enough for coherent speech, and then I could only stammer a halting description of the things I saw. The last, though... I couldn't. Just couldn't.

What would she say... what would _any_ of them say... if they knew I looked at an Uruk with the eagerness of a lover?

* * *

><p>Later that night, we were invited to make the harrowing climb up to Galadriel and Celeborn's lofty abode. We stood around and discussed the road ahead, and who would be continuing on (duh, all of us). I hadn't realized we were heading out so soon, but I supposed we'd been there for a while. Probably time to be rambling on.<p>

In the end, Celeborn advised Strider of the way ahead, and promised us boats for the journey south. I figured we'd be hard pressed to get as good a sleep as we did here, so I was anxious to hit the tents downstairs as quickly as possible.

"Sleep in peace, my friends!" Galadriel added as we headed for the ladders down. "Perhaps your paths are already laid before your feet. Do not trouble your thoughts with the road ahead tonight."

Somehow, that didn't comfort me. I was sick to death of having it hammered into my head night and day about fate and predestined this and that...

Sighing, I snuggled deep into the cushions of my wonderful, awesome bed. I was really going to miss this. Really.

_He hadn't been down there in awhile, had forgotten the sounds that offended his ears and the smells that assaulted his nostrils, making him snort and sneeze to clear them. It was the breeding chamber as it always had been, but tonight only two Uruks were at work. Over in a corner near one of them, a stooped figure dressed in a heavy fur cloak eagerly watched the vigorous activities of one Uruk, and fondled himself all the while. Ûnran looked away; it was **him** again._

"_All right, whelp, you keep your hands to yourself, now," the Pitmaster snarled as they approached a familiar figure on one of the tables. Master was there already, a knife in his hand. The Uruk swallowed hard. _

"_We shall now see your worth," the White One said coolly, and carefully slit the female's swollen belly open from the bottom of her ribs to her groin._

_She'd never said another word to him after he apologized the first time, had never cried out as he bred with her, never begged or pleaded. Now she screamed so loudly it hurt Ûnran's ears, and he clamped his hands over them to shut it out._

_Her body convulsed for a few moments, and an Orc attendant hastened to the Master's side, but he waved off any assistance. "She has borne four now. Her use is ended. Leave her." Nodding, the Orc stepped back. The Master peeled back flesh and muscle, reaching into the gaping cavity with both hands. Then he pulled out a shapeless, blood-covered mass, from which a bluish cord ran back into the female's body._

_Ûnran was transfixed as the Orc attendant stepped up with a pitcher of water and poured it over the lumpy object. With a start, he realized some... thing... was moving feebly inside the membrane. The red blood and gore sloughed off, leaving the somewhat translucent yellowish membrane relatively clear. With great care, Master turned the bundle this way and that, peering at it, looking for something. Ûnran leaned closer, fascinated._

_Then the White One sighed. "Disappointing." Glaring at the Uruk, all prior care abandoned, he gripped the small thing with one hand and yanked the cord free. Then he took the knife and ripped open the membrane._

_As the sack holding the object fell away with a splash of fluids, Ûnran's eyes widened. It looked like a tiny version of himself. But with one difference..._

"_Female," Master hissed, his anger now palpable. "These are not tolerated. I had hoped you would please me. I see I was mistaken."_

_Curling his lip in disgust, Master flung the tiny Uruk away. The small body, barely two hand spans in length, sailed across the chamber and smashed into the wall. Ûnran's stomach clenched. He understood little of what he had been doing down here for months or what connection he had with the tiny one, but his instincts insisted there **was** a connection, and that what was done should not have been._

_Clenching his fists, he quivered with the impotent rage of one who wants to cause pain but is just coherent enough to fear the consequences of it._

I must have woken up the entire city of Elves when I came roaring out of the dream that time. My screams could probably be heard in Isengard. I couldn't see through the tears, couldn't hear over the noise I was making. There were people all around me, trying desperately to quiet me, but I didn't recognize any of them. When my throat was too ragged to scream anymore, the howling started: deep, horrified, and distraught.

Then I heard a gentle voice murmuring quietly nearby, or maybe it was in my head. Gradually, the howling diminished to moaning, and eventually to sobbing. I realized Strider had me in his arms, and I was clutching the front of his tunic so tightly my knuckles were white.

When I could speak, my voice was uneven, rasping, and choked with tears. "Saruman... is a fucking bastard. He better start running, because I'm coming. I'm coming for him."

"It wasn't real," Strider said reassuringly in my ear. "A dream only. Whatever you saw was _not real_. Do you understand?"

Without answering, I fell apart again. How could he _do_ that?

No. Strider was right. It wasn't real. It _couldn't_ be real. He was one of the _Wise_. He was once a friend of Gandalf's. If everyone was so busted up about him switching sides, he must have been a great guy at some point, right? He wouldn't rip a baby out of a woman's belly, let her die of shock, then throw said baby at a wall. He wouldn't. No way.

"I don't... want... to sleep... ever again," I gasped through the waves of almost physical pain. "Never again. Please. Make it stop, Strider. _Please_."

"I cannot," he said helplessly, holding me more tightly and rocking on his heels.

After awhile, I calmed down. It became my mantra: _not real, not real, not real_... I wouldn't be able to face another day if I didn't cling to those two words. Everything I'd witnessed up to this point was peanuts by comparison. I'd wondered, when Ûnran was raping that woman, how it could possibly get worse. Now I knew. What was my brain's _problem_? Did it want me to know how useless I was in an even more provocative manner? That it wasn't my lack of experience dealing with a world this technologically backwards, now I wasn't worth a damn because of my _gender_?

More than ever, I wanted control over these dreams. I wanted to go straight back to sleep, stomp up to Saruman with a club and beat the living crap out of him. Small consolation, knowing he'd take a header off the tower after his entire empire crumbled to dust. Assuming even _that_ was coming. I was so disoriented, I'd stopped anticipating _anything_ from the movie. Considering how everything else had gone, it wouldn't surprise me if Saruman got the Prince Humperdinck option.

Nobody asked what I saw, which was a relief. I didn't think I could possibly put it into words. Maybe for Gandalf, I would. He seemed like a tough old man. He could take it. This bunch... not so much. Knowing them, they'd blame Ûnran for it. Like he had any control over how he was made or what he was ordered to do.

For obvious reasons, I didn't sleep for the rest of the night, which made me drop like a stone when the sun was peeking over the horizon. I just couldn't resist it; my eyes drooped, my head nodded, and soon I was sprawling in a heap, likely snoring my head off.

_Ûnran jerked slightly when the lash struck him. Swallowing, he adjusted his grip on the leather thongs and prepared himself for another. The stroke came, but was no worse than the last. Less, as a matter of fact. As if the Pitmaster's heart wasn't in it._

_He flinched through two more, then the Orc gave up and threw the whip on the floor. Ûnran looked over his shoulder, knowing better from long experience than to leave the post before given leave._

_The Pitmaster's hunched form stood apart, eyes on the ground, hands on his hips. Glancing up at the Uruk, he gestured negligently, dismissing him. Curious, Ûnran took his time getting into his shirt. Not that he could hurry if he wanted to; his back, never properly healed, burned like fire even when the Pitmaster only half-heartedly flogged him._

"_Never seen the like," the Orc suddenly muttered, and Ûnran stood still. "Right queer little bugger, you are. Others of you lot would've gone after it and et your fill. Filthy mongrels." He spat on the floor, then looked up at Ûnran with a strange expression on his face. "You? Heh. Just stand there, lookin' like yer gonna tear Master apart." He shook his head in what might have been admiration. "Ain't as stupid as yuh look."_

"_What was it?" Ûnran forced himself to ask. "It... felt... like mine." He frowned at the thought, unsure if those were even the right words for what stirred in him when he saw the tiny one._

_The Pitmaster nodded slowly. "Aye. It was yours. And yuh fucked it up, like I told yuh not to. Stupid whelp."_

"_I don't know how I made it in the **first** place," Ûnran snarled angrily. "How could I fuck it up? I did what I was told. What the fuck was I **supposed** to do, eh?"_

_All the fight was gone from the Orc, and he just shrugged. "Don't know. All I know is, Master don't wanna waste his 'resources' or some shit on females. So when one comes, out it goes." He bowed his head. "Kaalob knew of this, she'd have my sack for a purse."_

"_Kaalob?"_

"_My mate," the Pitmaster said, scratching the back of his neck. "Left her in the village, oh, hunnert summers back, I think. Ain't seen'er since."_

"_What's a... mate?"_

_The Orc chuckled. "Somethin' Master don't want you lot knowin' about, that's what. Yuh might get uppity. Get ideas." Appraising the young Uruk, he nodded. "Yuh know? Fuck him. I'll tell yuh. A mate's yer other half. Yuh don't even know yuh ain't whole til she's there, then yuh can't... yuh can't live without her." The old Orc had to stop for a moment and master himself. "Miss her, I do. Specially these days. Since comin' here. First I got dragged outta my home to serve the Eye, then I got dragged outta there to serve the Hand. Know somethin'? The Eye just watches yuh. Yuh don't wanna piss it off, sure, but it just watches. Yuh go about yer business, yuh mate, yuh drop young, yuh serve. Yuh **all** serve. Males, females. All of yuh. All equal, all have worth, all serve the Eye._

"_Here, the Hand is over yer head all the time, just waitin' for yuh to fuck up. **Wantin'** yuh to fuck up, so's it can smack yuh down. Crush yuh in its grip. He don't care what yuh **need**. Only wants what you can give'im. Keeps yuh runnin' hot and don't give yuh nothin' to fuck but each other, yuh stupid bastards. Won't even let **us** bring our mates here. Know why? Cause you'll see how it **oughta** be. How yuh gotta be **soft** sometimes. Don't wantcha learnin' **any** of that. And he don't wanna **make**'em cause then you won't need **him**, see."_

"_I don't understand."_

"_Course yuh don't. You fucked that whiteskin for months and didn't even know what would come of it. That little whelp Master k-...killed was what come of it. Listen, if you lot had females of your own, you'd make yer own whelps. Horny as you mongrels are, the pits'd be crawling with your leavin's in a year. Then Master would lose control over yuh. Too many, see. Can only spread hisself so thin. Gotta talk in all yer heads all the time, or you'd be goin' off yer nut."_

_Ûnran blinked. "I do not hear Master's voi-..." He stopped, and stared over the Orc's head. Now that it was mentioned, now that attention had been called to it, he realized he'd heard a soft murmuring at the back of his mind for as long as he could remember._

"_Yeah, yer hearin' it now, ain'tcha?" the Pitmaster sneered. "That there's how he keeps yuh runnin'. Day and night, wantin' tuh kill, hatin' everything yuh see, and lots of what yuh **don't** see. Never questionin', always doin' what the Hand tells yuh to do." He tilted his head to the side and looked hard at Ûnran. "'Cept you, whelp. Where yuh got yer damn ideas, I dunno, but you ain't never been like all the rest. Course, that's changed now. Yuh fucked up, so now yer goin' up top."_

_Straightening eagerly, the Uruk almost grinned with relief, but the Pitmaster shook his head. "Ain't a reward, whelp. Yuh stay down here, yer safe. Go up top, whiteskins'll hunt yuh down. Ain't nothin' pleases a whiteskin like seein' our heads on pikes. So keep yer head down, eh?"_

_Ûnran deflated. "Still wanna get outta here," he muttered. "I hate it."_

"_Huh. Where ya gonna go, eh? I'll tell yuh now, you lot ain't welcome among Orcs. They see yuh comin', they'll split yuh open faster'n a whiteskin'll do it. Yuh better hope Master wins his little war, or there ain't nowhere you can run to."_

I drifted awake, raw from the first dream, hopelessly depressed by the second. Imagine being comforted by someone as repellent as the Pitmaster. Who hates me? Show of hands.

God, that was why. No girls in the pits because he didn't want to let them breed like rabbits. Get out of control. Hell, be an actual, viable species, a race all their own. The simplest of needs, denied them. Like being forced through not only gestation but childhood without passing Go or collecting two hundred dollars wasn't enough.

Part of me was relieved that my brain wasn't having self-esteem issues. Gender equality apparently had nothing to do with this soap opera. It was all about control.


	16. The Mighty Skillet Renamed OrcBane

**The Mighty Skillet Renamed Orc-Bane**

My mind was so raw and worn out from the last few horrors to pass through it that I only responded perfunctorily to the guys as we gathered up our gear. Barely registered the return of my pack with everything in it sweet-smelling and clean, including my beloved pajamas.

I stumbled along in the Company's wake, following Haldir's lead again. No one was out and about this early, it seemed, though we could hear laughing and singing coming from the _flets_ above us. We left the city through the southern gate and followed the road for a bit, then Haldir led us off along a path through thick trees.

After awhile, I noticed I was wearing a grey cloak similar to Haldir's, and everyone else wore them as well. When did I get this? Wow, I must have been really out of it. Checking the clasp, I was amused to see it was _very_ like the one in the movie: a narrow green leaf with silver veins. Very nice.

That seemed to snap me out of my gloom, and I began noticing where I was, who I was with, and where we were going. I felt like I was on my way home from a really awesome vacation, the kind that's so wonderful, home seems like the last place you want to be. Maybe even so awesome, you need _another_ vacation just to recover from the first one.

Because now the suck train was leaving the station once again. I didn't want to recall any of those dreams last night, but what the Pitmaster said stuck in my head like a skipping record: _Yuh fucked up, so now yer goin' up top._ Ûnran had looked so hopeful, like getting out of the pits was a blessing, a chance at freedom. But a line from an old song my parents used to moon over came to mind, as well: _Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose_.

They were coming. Likely on their way out the door of Isengard right this moment. We'd meet them, who knows how long from now. I hadn't listened, hadn't paid attention when Celeborn and Strider talked about how many days we'd be in the boats before reaching... Rauros or somesuch. Now I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, like a hard ball. How in the god damn world was I going to survive an attack by – god, a hundred? Two hundred? – pissed off, pumped up, horny, vicious Uruk-hai with nothing but a frying pan? Because oh hell no, I didn't hunt down Haldir or any of his friends and demand sword lessons. I laid around and basked in tubs, getting a fucking manicure.

Oh my god, I was _really_ going to die now. Small consolation that my nails would look totally awesome at the funeral.

When we finally ground to a halt on the march of a thousand miles, or ten, however many it was, we had reached a sort of pier with several small boats and barges moored to it. We divided up in the boats, and I ended up with Legolas and Gimli and most of our packs. Assuming I was lame and girly, they stuck me in the middle and handled the oars themselves. In this one instance, I decided not to protest or mention that I'd learned wildwater kayaking at my cousins' insistence when I visited once during college, and every summer trip afterwards competed in local trials. Just for the hell of it. Won a few, too. But at the moment, I just wanted to sink into the bottom of the little boat and hope I made a really small target.

After we'd been punting around, getting the feel of how the boats ran, we turned a bend of the river and saw this huge swan boat. There was light music coming from it, and I realized Galadriel and Celeborn were aboard, and she was singing sweetly, but sadly as well.

They bade us join them in one last feast before parting, so the boys steered our boats to a nearby shore and everyone debarked, albeit a little shakily in some cases. The food was typical Elven fare: made for vegetarians of various persuasions, and carb-lovers with a bread fetish. I suddenly wondered where all the _lembas_ was. Weren't we supposed to get _lembas_? God, I wanted to know what that stuff tasted like. Maybe the packs provided by the Elves were stuffed with them. Hell, I wasn't paying any attention. I was still brooding over... stuff. I suppose I'd find out.

The chattering continued, but it couldn't hold my attention. Again, names of places that had no meaning, no context, no... oh wait. Someone mentioned Fangorn. Then I was lost again, shuddering and thinking about trees that eat people, trees that smother you under the water, trees that tear your head off and fling the pieces in different directions...

Crap. Even though the eatees, the smotherees, the tearees, and the flingees were Orcs, it didn't seem to matter anymore. They were slaves. They didn't have a choice.

And for the love of Christ, _it wasn't real_. Dammit! I shook myself, tried to clear my maddening thoughts, but it was all a jumble of dread and fear, scenes from dreams I'd had, visions I'd seen, stories I'd been told...

"Let us now drink from the cup of parting," Galadriel said, and her clear voice broke through the morass in my head. A cup with some kind of sweet wine was passed around, and when it came to me, I wanted to down the whole thing in one. I could definitely see the appeal of getting roaring drunk, and pushing unwelcome thoughts to the background for awhile. How stupid of me not to think of that before. I might have gotten more sleep. And puked a lot more, but still.

Instead, I sipped delicately like everyone else and passed it on.

Then it was gift-giving time. Aragorn got a sword sheath, and all of a sudden I realized he had _the sword_. Andúril. How the _hell_ did he get _that_? And why didn't I notice it before? Holy shit. He'd buried that thing in all sorts of Orc flesh and bone, and I missed what he was using the whole time. Wow. The Sword That Was Broken. Now hastily reglued, apparently. Those sneaky Elves. And I thought he'd have to wait until Elrond paid him a visit in Rohan.

Galadriel then gave him a brooch with a green stone and named him Elessar the Elfstone. I wondered what she'd say about my necklace, and if I'd get a cool name for wearing it. I'd nearly forgotten about it on the long road to Lothlórien, but once I was cleaned up and wearing non-dirty crap, I felt like I could wear it openly. The chain was just long enough to dip into my cleavage, if the dress was cut just right to give it access. Now I had it on under my clothes, and I touched the little lump just to make sure it was still there.

Poor Boromir, Merry, and Pippin got belts. That's like getting socks for Christmas. Legolas got a bow and arrows, all much nicer than what he had, so he was grateful. I wondered if those arrows were plus one against Orcs or something. To Sam, she gave a little box, and I thought it was the one full of salt he had in the movie.

"For you, little gardener and lover of trees," she said with a smile. "Inside is earth from my orchard, and with it your garden will bloom like no others. Then perhaps you will remember Lothlórien and the Lady Galadriel with a warm heart."

It took a bit of coaxing, but she managed to get Gimli to stammer out that he'd like one strand of her hair, if it wouldn't be too much to ask. I found myself blushing on his behalf, he seemed so much like a shy, embarrassed teenager.

Then she turned to me. I could barely look her in the face, after all the horrid things I'd seen while in her domain. Things that shouldn't have had access, not with her ring barring the doors. Things that wouldn't enter the thoughts of someone with a pure soul or a sane mind.

She lifted my chin with gentle fingers, and I _had_ to look at her. Her eyes were sympathetic, her smile soft. "Tanith Walker, Shaper. What will you shape? What _have_ you shaped? Your reach is long, and has touched many. To you, I give this." In my hands she laid a small vial. "Drink of it only at need, for its effect is swift."

Bewildered, I asked, "What does it do?"

"It is a relief," she said softly, and I got the impression that it was a woman thing, and the men all around us shouldn't be listening in. "Should misfortune befall you, and you do not wish to endure what is left behind."

The look on her face told me this wasn't the morning after pill. This was the cyanide pellet. I closed my eyes, and wished she'd given me socks.

Frodo got his glow-in-the-dark spider repellent, and we all reluctantly climbed back in the boats. I stuffed that vial as far to the bottom of my pack as I could. If I looked at it one more time, I'd start shaking again. Huddled in the boat, I clamped my legs together as tightly as I could and stared at the water sliding past.

* * *

><p>Well into night, we camped on the banks of the river, and I avoided everyone's eyes. Eventually, Strider came to sit with me, and I gratefully leaned into him when he put his arm around my shoulders.<p>

"Galadriel's gift," he began, then sighed. "You understand its meaning and purpose, do you not?"

I nodded. "I thought Elves were all about life and... and happy things."

"They are. Do not mistake her gift. It was given with a sad heart, but a true one. She saw the suffering of her own daughter, and wished only to spare you such torment."

"Her daughter," I said, looking up at him. "Arwen's mother?"

"One in the same," he confirmed. "Had I my way, you would not have passed the borders of Lórien, but... Our roads lie together, it would seem. At least for a time."

"I want to... something's coming, and I...," I said, but he shushed me.

"No, do not say. We will meet it when it comes, and no sooner. For tonight, rest." He stood up and got busy with his watch.

I eased down onto my bedroll, courtesy of Celeborn, and pulled my designer Lothlórien blanket over my shoulders. Maybe if I snuck up on sleep, I'd get there by myself. There wouldn't be Orcs or uncomfortable scenes with disgusting wizards waiting for me.

No such luck.

_There were many of them, at least ten companies of ten each. Ûnran didn't know where they were going or what they were doing. It didn't matter. They'd marched out of the ring of rocks surrounding the valley like a prison wall, and run like their Master's whips were at their heels through the whole day. Now they were camped on the plains around a roaring fire. Many were singing and laughing. A few were getting put in their place to the entertainment of the others. Ûnran kept his head down, said nothing to anyone, and held on tightly to the little pouch at his hip._

For some reason, the dream faded from there, and it was like the beginining of the journey from Rivendell in my head again. I barely remembered dreaming at all by morning, in fact. After a quick breakfast, we were back in the boats and heading south. And that was how it went, for several days. My dreams of Ûnran were blessedly brief, though they sometimes packed a lot of awful into a short span.

There was one dream where Unran's luck must have run out, and he was targeted for 'entertainment.' It wasn't just buggery they were after, though. First he took a thorough pounding to establish his place in the pecking order, _then_ those above him thought it was time for fun. They didn't bank on how much Ûnran hated it, though. Not by a long shot. Only one got to him before he went ballistic, leaving three corpses and several stunned faces in his wake. Then he bellowed like a triumphant beast, head thrown back and mouth wide open.

Just remembering that roar later made me feel very uncomfortable. While I would say Jackson was really close in his portrayal of the Uruk roar, it was a hundred times scarier in person with a real one. Like lions and tigers and bears oh my were all expressing their pissiness at once.

Apparently, my brain decided Ûnran wasn't quite the patsy it thought, and left him alone after that, thank god. Didn't spare anyone else in the group, but at least Ûnran was safe.

After maybe five days of punting down the Anduin, I was feeling a little less down in the dumps and a lot more antsy. One can only wallow in self-pity or cower under the blanket of dread for so long before one decides it's time for a shake-up.

Since lately I'd been spared the overly-interested glances of Boromir, who now had eyes only for Bling, and the rest of them were no concern whatsoever, I stood up by our campfire one night and nudged the Singer. Affecting a near falsetto, sassy vocal style, and engaging the Floozy in a little bit of booty-shaking to entertain the troops, we cut loose, foot loose.

_You've got a cute way of talkin'.  
>You got the better of me.<br>Just snap your fingers and I'm walking,  
>Like a dog hangin' on your lead.<em>

Singing _a cappalla_ wasn't easy, but I managed, and poured on the vamping around the campsite. The Hobbits laughed and clapped as I danced. Gimli chuckled and shook his head. Legolas's brow furrowed and he looked like he wasn't sure what to do with this. Strider tried not to watch, looking embarrassed but amused, and Boromir fixed me with a very hungry stare indeed. Oh crap. Well, shit. If my sister could make it to and from work without getting jumped, then surely I'd be fine. I was considerably more dressed than she was on any given night, for starters.

_You put a spell on me.  
>I'm right where you want me to be.<br>You make me feel like dancin'._

I let the Singer and the Floozy have free rein for awhile, and it felt good. Really good. Everything was so gloomy and depressing, I just needed a moment of frivolity to remind myself, and maybe them as well, that every once in awhile, it doesn't _have_ to suck. I went to bed feeling much better, a little happier, and pretty darn sexy. The last I had to treasure because this trip had proven at least one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt, and that was that nobody marches to war with an expectation of being clean. I would have been more happy with soap on a rope from Galadriel, instead of a vial of poison. Beggars can't be choosers, I guess.

That night, I was further encouraged by the absence of Orcish dreams, as if dancing like a fool was the secret to keeping them at bay. Shit, if I'd known my dancing would scare them off, I would've gyrated like a wild woman every damn day.

* * *

><p>The farther south we went, the more nervous Strider became, and that rubbed off on all of us. We switched up days and nights, hitting the river under cover of darkness. Even my dreams got more ominous, showing me the endlessly running raiding band Ûnran was with, as if to remind me of what was coming at us. Keep the threat level solidly in the orange range.<p>

We hit rapids at one point, and in the dark with barely enough moonlight to see where we were going, it was damn dangerous. Hitting the churning water full on, our boats were knocked around as the guys desperately tried to keep us afloat and off the rocks.

This was ridiculous. Climbing up front, I wrestled the paddle away from Gimli and nearly sat in his lap to take over. Using both the paddle and, on occasion my foot, I kept our boat off the rocks and swung it around, back against the current. It seemed like ages since I last handled a small boat like this, and my muscles weren't too happy with me about the reminder.

To add insult to injury, we started taking shots from the shore. Arrows thunked into the sides of the boats and even got stuck in our clothes.

"_Yrch_!" Legolas squealed, and for a second I thought he was throwing up. Evidently, that's Elvish for Orc. Who knew.

We caught sight of dark figures running along the bank, partially hidden by trees and underbrush. Hunkering down and pulling those amazing Elvish cloaks over us for cover, we paddled like crazy back into the current and far from the danger zone near the eastern shore. Strider then led us to the western shore, and Legolas leapt out of our boat to take a look around.

I got out as well, and started pulling the little boat up onto the bank, when a feeling of dread came on me. That's the best way I can describe it. And it was a familiar dread, too. Like I'd been there before, or something I'd seen before was sneaking up on me. Whirling around, I scanned the shoreline on our side, then back across to where the Orcs were cheering and laughing like maniacs. I couldn't see anything, which just made it even worse. Then I realized Legolas was aiming his bow at the sky.

I didn't need a scene from the movie, which this wasn't, to tell me _that_ bastard was a Ringwraith. Oh, welcome back, Mr. Undead Guy! We missed you! It's just not a _Lord of the Rings_ epic without at least one Nazgûl climbing up your ass. Legolas appeared to disagree, and let fly an arrow from his brand new bow. He'd probably been anxious to try it out ever since he got it.

Keen are the eyes of the Elves, or some damn thing, because he hit the winged terror full on and it dropped out of the sky with a shriek. The clamor across the river turned to wails of dismay. Standing up and pointing at the opposite bank, I yelled as loud as I could, "In your _face_!"

Man, I'd been dying to say _that_ for a good long while, let me tell you.

We went a bit further downstream before camping in the boats for the night. It was damned uncomfortable, but probably safer. Quicker getaway if the black-blooded elite across the way figured out how to cross the river.

"The Bow of Galadriel is truly a wonder," Gimli noted as we munched on _lembas_. Which, I'm happy to say, doesn't taste like ass in wafer form. It's actually pretty good. I'd still toss it in the trash for a Big Mac, but it would do in a pinch. "That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!"

"But who can say what it hit?" the Elf replied.

"I can," I pointed out. When I had their full attention, I said, "Guess who's back and badder than ever? Horses just don't get the job done anymore."

Strider's brow rose. "Wraiths?" he whispered, and I nodded.

"How do you... oh yes, of course," Boromir snarled. Wow, he was a dick. When he wasn't sullen and brooding, he was staring at Frodo like a tiger stalking its prey and chewing his fingernails. Then I danced like an idiot and got on his radar, so he was giving _me_ the crap-ass attitude as well. Couldn't I just backhand him? Shake some sense into him? At first I felt sorry for him, but now it was just annoying.

"Save it, Boromir," I snapped. "I'm not in the mood."

"Tell us, then," he barked angrily. "Share your foresight and wisdom, won't you?"

"Boromir," Strider warned. "She is held by a promise made to Gandalf, and I hold her to it as well."

"A promise she has broken when the whim takes her," Boromir retorted. "Can she not indulge such a whim _now_? Must we flounder in the dark until the end of days, while she gloats and sneers at our flailings?"

"Hold your tongue, man!" Strider roared. "What has gotten into you?"

"No, it's all right," I said, waving the Ranger down. Turning to Boromir, I growled, "Share my wisdom, huh? How's _this_, asshole: Don't think for a moment I don't know exactly what's going through your mind. And consider this, as well. _I know about it_. Understand? That means someone remembered, wrote it down, and passed it on. You're all about honor and being remembered for brave and noble deeds. Well, sometimes the shitty deeds get remembered too. Chew on that for awhile."

The look of _oh shit, she figured me out_ was almost comical. I nodded to confirm his suspicions, then turned over and tried to get some sleep in the cramped boat.

By morning, we were all stiff and sore, not to mention frustrated by a fog bank that rolled in during the night. Strider and Legolas went hunting up a portage route we could take, while the rest of us divvied up the goods. If I thought tramping through the swamps without mosquito repellent was rough, hauling boats the builders insisted were lightweight enough for carrying but in reality weighed about as much as baby elephants after a few yards was even worse. Again, totally let down by Mr. Jackson. He made the boat ride little worse than a trip through Pirates of the Caribbean. And I mean the one at Disneyland, not the movies. Though the movies aren't particularly threatening, either. Getting shot at by Orcs and eye-balled by a Ringwraith, _then_ hauling boats across a mile or so of rough terrain... Well, I guess I could understand why he left the last part out.

Once we were back to the river, we camped another night before continuing on. The river took us through a deep ravine with high sides, getting higher and rougher as we went. Then I saw them... the Argonath. Holy crap, were we this far already? If we were seeing the gigantic statues from hell, then that meant...

Oh Jesus... oh Jesus... they were coming. Oh god. Doomed. I was doomed. Dammit, Sam was two boats away. Did he still have my frying pan? Crap, crap, crap, and double-crap.

Strider led us to the western shore, and we beached the boats. The day was waning. We set up camp, and I stood nervously, staring into the forest behind us. Any minute now...

"Get some sleep," Strider advised. "All is quiet for the moment. Rest while you may."

Reluctantly, I bedded down. How could I possibly sleep, knowing what was coming? I met Boromir's gaze in the firelight. He didn't look hostile, just... thoughtful. And maybe a little ashamed. Good. You _should_ be, fuck-head.

I tossed and fretted all night. Didn't see Ûnran, as if my high state of alarm was keeping even _him_ at bay. I was so relieved when I woke the next morning, not only alive but without the sound of a charging horde bearing down on us, that I was actually civil to Boromir. Strider assembled us on the shore and addressed the team with a bowed head.

"We must now make a choice," he sighed. "Do we accompany Boromir to the west in defense of Gondor, or travel east into fear and Shadow? Or should we break this fellowship that has endured for so long, and go each our own way? I fear either way, east or west, will be perilous. We know Orcs hold the eastern shore; I suspect they have crossed to the west by now as well."

Turning to Frodo, he said, "What say you, Frodo? As the Bearer, your way is yours alone to choose, and I cannot advise you as Gandalf might have."

The poor little guy looked even smaller under the focused eyes of the Company, and fidgeted for a moment. "I cannot decide. Give me an hour to think on it."

Strider nodded. "You shall have your hour. But do not stray far."

Muttering a hollow thank you, Frodo headed off into the trees. Once more, that horrible dread came on me, not Nazgûl-induced this time, and I went to Sam.

"Hey, uh... you still have the frying pan?" I muttered.

Frowning, he looked up at me. "Are you... are you saying you'll have need of it? Soon?"

"Very soon."

Bless his heart, even with a face stricken by sudden alarm, he dutifully scrambled for his pack and fetched the skillet. It was like a familiar old friend in my hand, and I felt braver. We sat down around the little campfire and chatted. I kept Boromir in the corner of my eye, curious to see at what point he would leave to follow Frodo and make an ass of himself, but he never got up. I found this rather odd; had my little confrontation affected him, hurried the change of heart that wasn't supposed to happen until later?

Well, his brow was furrowed deeply, as if he was still debating the issue in his head, but at least he was debating it _here_. What that would mean for the rest of it, I had no idea.

Then Frodo _came back_. What the...?

"I have decided," he said resignedly, and we all stood to hear his decision. "The Burden of Bearer was set upon me, and me alone. Therefore, I will take the dark road, and go east. I do not wish to share such a perilous path with any of you."

"But Mr. Frodo," Sam said reasonably, and not a little desperately, I thought, "you shouldn't oughta go alone. Not to _that place_."

"No," I agreed. "Take someone you can trust." I tried to jerk my head toward Sam without being _too_ obvious. Frodo gave me a wan smile.

"Perhaps you are right," he allowed, then grinned a little more broadly. "Of course, you are right. Sam, at least, shall accompany me. But no others!" he insisted, casting a sharp look at Merry and Pippin. Both were beside themselves with anxiety at the thought of being left behind. "I do not think..."

What Frodo didn't think, we never learned. Right about then, Legolas stiffened like someone rammed a steel rod up his ass. "_Yrch_!" he gagged out again, and Frodo drew his Orc-detector.

Blue. Not a slight outline of dimly glowing blue. This was full-blown, hilt to tip, Tron-just-got-powered-up blue.

"Fuck!" I shrieked, double-fisting the skillet and staring into the trees like they were going to suddenly change into Orcs.

Good god, we were all together, not scattered over the hills. And we had our backs to the water. Trapped. Holy mother of god.

"Get in the boat!" Strider cried, grabbing Frodo and Sam and giving them a shove. "Go across! We will hold them. Go!"

As the two Hobbits scrambled into a boat and shoved off, the rest of us drew swords or axes or cooking utensils and headed into the trees to meet whatever disaster was coming. I was close to tears, and I hadn't taken a piss recently. God dammit. I wanted to stay as far away from Boromir as I could, but he wouldn't let me. Merry and Pippin were likewise cling-ons, pretty much putting a big old target on my back from both sides.

We could hear them now. Apparently they caught wind of us and homed in, then caught sight of us and roared their challenges. Now it was a hundred lions, tigers and bears throats all expressing massive pissiness within a hundred yards. I clamped down on my Kegels as hard as could.

When they hit us, it was like a tsunami wave crashing into a rustic village on the coast. Only the dense trees kept us from being bulldozed completely. I played dodge'em around a thick trunk with one quickly-frustrated Uruk for several seconds before landing a blow on his helmeted head that staggered him.

But that's _all_ it did. Apparently one of the genetic improvements was a skull made of concrete.

I'm not proud, nor am I overwhelmed with stupid notions of honor and bravery. When the head bang didn't drop him, I kicked him in the balls and ran for it.

They were _all over the place_. You couldn't run away, couldn't find a place that wasn't crawling with Orcs. And that's just it; there were more than Uruk-hai in this group. Maybe they picked up some of those yah-hoos who shot at us the other day, because there were a fair number of short little bastards among them. The Skillet of Orc-Bane worked on those guys. I put several face down in a crumpled heap as I ran.

Then I heard Boromir's horn, and turned. God dammit, did we all scatter or something? I didn't get much of a moment to think about it, because another one of those giant goons came running at me. I deflected his sword very badly; it hit me just below the boobs and tore through shirt and skin almost to my hip.

Holy shit, that hurt! Gasping, I staggered back and stupidly put my hand on the wound and looked at the blood. There was a shit-ton of it, and I felt woozy. The Orc... excuse me, _Uruk_ who nailed me chuckled.

What, you were waiting for me to realize you drew blood on me, jerk? I looked up at him and he had this leering grin, showing sharp, rotten teeth. His helmet hid the rest of his face, thank god. Then he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me closer. He _sniffed_ me, and my bladder almost forcibly ejected its contents. If I hadn't instinctively clamped down on everything from the waist down, I would have most certainly pissed myself.

"_Sharlob!_" he roared, thrusting me away from him. Um, no, I think you've gotten me mistaken with a lady who has _eight_ legs, Mr. Uruk sir... "_Htolub-izgu zashu gratu zabûrz!_" he bellowed loud enough for any who weren't currently engaged in a pitched battle to hear. Somehow I didn't think he was saying I should be set free and allowed to go my merry way. Sure enough, he looked at me with a particularly nasty grin, and back-handed me so hard I saw stars, then nothing at all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Lots of things this time around. :)**

**Song lyric:** _Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose_. - "Me & Bobby McGee" by Janis Joplin

**Quote:** "The Sword That Was Broken, Now Hastily Reglued" – god, I wish that was mine. :) This is actually the reference to Andúril from _Bored of the Rings_, a classic parody of _Lord of the Rings_ by National Lampoon. It was published in 1969 and is ridiculously dated, but a hoot nonetheless. Highly recommended.

**Song lyric:** "You Make Me Feel Like Dancing" by Leo Sayer

**Translations:**

_Sharlob_ - human female

_Htolub-izgu zashu gratu zabûrz_ – we will fuck like chiefs tonight


	17. The Brotherhood of the Traveling Orcs

**The Brotherhood of the Traveling Orcs**

Slowly, my mind drifted to the surface, and several things gradually came to me.

First, my nose wrinkled. I was literally in the stinkiest place imaginable. It was like a high school locker room that had also been used as a bathroom. I could almost _taste_ the stench.

Next, my stomach hurt, especially where I was wounded. Probably because I was slung over someone's shoulder, so all my weight was focused there.

Then I realized I was in jarring, steady motion. Every step taken bounced my body and worsened the pain in my side.

Finally, I heard the sounds of their feet, pounding relentlessly against the ground, and the sounds of grunting, growling, huffing...

Oh my god. They had me. The Orcs had me. If I thought it sucked before, I was about to be introduced to a whole new level of suckage. There would be rape, and lots of it. Nothing I could do about it, nothing to prevent it, nobody to save my ass from a round of team-building exercises. Might as well get ready for it.

Holy shit, how does one 'get ready' for gang rape? All _my_ lessons on the subject were about how to _avoid_ it.

Finally, I opened my eyes, and I could see the legs of my captor eating up the ground below me. My arms were bouncing against his back, the wrists bound with rope. I was over his right shoulder, I noted, and I could feel the tight grip he had on my legs. If ever I wanted to have pissed myself, it was now, but having a urine-soaked female crotch right next to his head probably wouldn't offend someone like _him_.

While I contemplated the prudence of escape attempts, an order seemed to filter back through the ranks, and the crowd slowed to a halt. Ah shit. A rest break. I had to assume they weren't going to smoke cigarettes until _after_ they'd had their fun.

The Uruk carrying me dumped me on the ground like a sack of potatoes, then dropped down next to me. I tried to sit up, but it was no good. Thank goodness there were cords around my knees and ankles. There'd have to be a bit of foreplay before anyone got a piece of me.

When he'd caught his breath, the Uruk fished in a ragged sack slung over his shoulder, and pulled out a little pot of something. Then he turned to me and roughly pushed my arms up over my head. I stiffened and gasped with sudden alarm, but he was only putting some stinky ointment on my wound. Still, it was worse than getting felt up by the class dweeb. His hands were rough and I could feel his claws, though he wasn't trying to hurt me at the moment. His hand sort of lingered under my breast, not even an inch away from getting a handful of it, and I held my breath. Squeezed my eyes shut.

Then he just went back to business and finished up. Even put my arms back down and pulled me into a sitting position. I realized with a start that he wasn't the same Uruk who decked me. While he also had a helmet on, it was a different shape.

Before I could wonder about what little skirmish must have made me change hands, another Uruk came sauntering up with a leer and grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet.

"Had your chance, maggot," he growled, and my captor leapt up as well. "Yuh don't want'er first, you can have'er last."

My captor, apparently, wasn't having his hard-won prize taken from him, and ripped me out of the other's grip. My sleeve _shredded_, and I winced from the sting of his claws cutting into my skin.

"She's for the pits!" my Uruk snarled, backing up his statement with a shove against the other Uruk's chest. "Master don't want none of _your_ cock in any of his breeding stock."

"Have your fun, then, and be quick about it," the Uruk retorted with a leer. "We all wanna see you at'er, so don't be shy."

"Wouldn't wanna give _you_ a show, _pushdug_ filth!" my guard growled, then the fight started. I toppled over backwards when my current guard shoved me aside so he could give the offending Uruk a piece of his mind on the whole 'cheap entertainment' subject.

While they were at it with teeth, claws, and blades, I stole a glance to left and right. There were several others watching the battle with amusement and cheers, probably hoping the two of them would kill each other so the others wouldn't have such a dedicated servant of their Master protecting me from them. Because that's what he was doing, I realized. Yeah, he was only saving me for... oh shit. Was that part of my months-long foray into Isengard true?

Oh god. The other Uruk assumed mine was going to rape me. As if he was allowed to...

I shook hard all over, and tried desperately not to cry, but I couldn't stop it. Another minute, another hour of rape-free existence hinged entirely on my guard's ability to kick this guy's ass. Then I would be at _his_ mercy.

Luckily, relatively speaking, my guard won, bellowing his victory. He snarled at the watchers, snapping his jaws and quivering all over, as if challenging them to come and join their now-very-dead comrade. Nobody volunteered.

Some barking commands from a short distance away roused all of them up, and now my guard drew a dagger to cut my leg bonds.

"Gotta run now," he muttered to me, and I swear he was almost apologetic. "Keep up best you can."

That was weird. Courtesy? From an Orc? What the fuck? Once I was on my feet, he grabbed hold of the ropes holding my wrists, and I finally looked at him properly. The helmet hid most of his face, but I could see some. I blinked. There were four long scars across his neck.

My breathing quickened with alarm. Glancing down, I found the little pouch at his hip. Oh my god. Oh... my... god...

"Ûnran?" I ventured, my voice barely strong enough to get out of my mouth.

He darted a look at me, and his mouth sort of quivered a little, but whether with surprise, shock, disgust, amusement... hell, I didn't know. I couldn't see the rest of his face. What he said nearly made me shit my pants.

"Yuh don't feel like dancin' now, eh, Tanith?"

Then we were off and running. I was stunned so hard I just stumbled along at his side in a daze. I didn't think I'd be in any worse shape if he'd bonked me over the head. If he was Ûnran, then everything I saw...

I almost fell on my face, and he had to yank me back up. Good god. Everything he went through, all those horrible, nasty, evil things Saruman did... all true. All real. Happening right before my eyes, likely _as_ they were happening.

Then the full weight of what he just said hit me like another blow to the head. He knew my name. And apparently watched me dance the other night. Good god. How much of _my_ life had _he_ seen? How much did he _know_? How incredibly fucked was I, and how soon would the blast wave of fucked-ness reach Frodo?

But worse than that, had he seen me naked? Holy shit on a stick.

There was no chance to ask, because I had to concentrate on staying on my feet and not throwing up what little was left in my stomach. I wished that knowing who he was filled me with relief, but it didn't. Maybe I knew him better than anyone on the planet, but I still didn't _know_ him. Not really. He could do almost anything at this point.

We ran for hours, my legs turning to jelly and dumping me face down on the ground. Ûnran didn't waste time; he hauled me up and threw me over his shoulder, then took off again. Maybe because I held out hope he'd be on _my_ side, I fought the urge to spew down his back. That wasn't easy; every step he took seemed to have an almost Heimlich effect on my gut.

On my side. Yeah, that'll happen. If he was on my side, he would have taken me away from this. _He_ didn't like what was going on in Saruman's basement. He couldn't possibly want to go back there. Not now that he'd had a taste of fresh air and a modicum of freedom. Right? Please? Beuller?

The running seemed to go on forever, and maybe I dozed a bit. It occurred to me that I didn't even know if Merry and Pippin were sharing this little side trip. Honestly, though, I wasn't worried about _them_. _They'd_ be fine. They were supposed to be delivered alive and unspoiled. I was fairly certain Saruman didn't make any concessions for the possibility that the Fellowship had a girl in it, so 'unspoiled' likely wasn't required for me. Alive was probably a special treat as well.

Then they slowed down again, and Ûnran dropped me in a heap before hitting the ground himself. I actually felt sorry for him as he gasped for breath. I was considerably lighter than I was when I came to Middle Earth, but that didn't mean I was weightless.

"Don't say nothin'," he warned when I took a breath to speak. He removed his helmet and dug his fingers into his matted, sweat-soaked hair to loosen it a bit. Then he glanced at me.

Yeah, that was him. His face was damn near as familiar as my own by now. I'd expected his yellow eyes to be cold and dead like a reptile's, but they weren't.

"I thought... you were a dream," he muttered under his breath, turning his face forward again. I realized that if we spoke together with too much familiarity, it would draw attention that neither of us wanted.

"Same here," I replied in an undertone. "Hoped you were, anyway."

He grunted. "Disgusted you, didn't it?"

"Pretty much." I caught the bitter tone to his voice, even as he tried to keep it down. All that sympathy and remorse on his behalf came flooding back to me now, but I was too afraid to show any of it. Staring down at my bound wrists, I just said, "Sucked to be you."

"Aye," he agreed, and I think he actually smiled a little. _Very_ little. "You were a comfort."

Even though he said it flatly and under his breath so no one else would hear, I felt a weird flutter in my gut. Actually warmed my heart a touch, knowing I'd sort of been there for him when he was in pain.

"Glad I could help."

He only nodded. His eyes were flicking constantly, keeping everyone around us in his sights lest another get it into his head that my ass was a community plaything.

"How much do you know?" I asked quietly.

Glancing at me for a second, he replied, "Got the wrong ones."

Lovely. "What will you do about it?"

He didn't answer for awhile, and just stared at the ground between his feet. His hand slipped down to clutch that little pouch. "Don't know."

"Up you get!" a harsh voice sounded, and damned if that Uruk leader from the second movie didn't walk by. "Break's over!" Stopping by us, he sneered. "Fucked her yet, breeder?"

"Ain't had time," Ûnran snarled as he pulled me up.

"When yuh got time, give her a good, hard fuck for me, eh?" Laughing, he moved on down the ranks, knocking heads and roughing up the smaller ones.

My whole body trembled. There it was, clear as day. I was on Ûnran's menu and all he needed was a long enough dinner break to take a bite. For a moment, I wished I had my pack, and the little vial buried at the bottom. Thank god the Floozy didn't perk up and remind me of brick houses and wedding tackle. I would have strangled her.

He must have seen, or likely smelled, my terror, because he leaned close to me and whispered, "Yuh got nothin' to worry 'bout from me, Tanith."

"Yeah, I'll make a note of that," I hissed through clenched teeth. Then he inched closer, and I couldn't help it, I recoiled a bit. He stopped, and retreated. When I glanced at his face, he was wincing as if I'd just insulted him. An insult he felt he deserved, apparently, because he didn't flare up at me. Then the group started to move again, and there was no chance of further conversation for a long while.

* * *

><p>Even Uruk-hai need to sleep sometime. The bitching and moaning about running until their legs fell off finally got through to the leader, and he called a halt. All around us, little campfires sprang up. Ûnran gathered twigs and grass to build one for us. Again, he was obliged to stop every couple of minutes and warn off an encroaching, hopeful Uruk.<p>

When a little blaze was started, he dipped into his bag again and pulled out some rations of questionable origin. He broke off a piece of bread and handed it to me. I was flipping famished by this time, and despite the movie's warning that it was likely maggoty, I didn't freaking care. More protein, I reasoned, and ate it without taking a breath.

"Sleep," he advised, "while yuh can. I'll keep watch."

I stopped stuffing my face and looked at him. Swallowing hard, I asked the obvious question before I could stop myself. "You're not going to...?"

He actually glared at me. _That_ insult he _didn't_ think he deserved.

"You know better."

Nodding, I finished the bread and lay down. I wondered what I'd dream, now that we were together. As it turned out, nothing at all. Just... your regular, run-of-the-mill, ludicrous dreams that make no damn sense.

When I woke, it was to a good deal of harsh laughter close at hand.

"Lookit that!" someone roared to the amusement of the others. "Got'er good and proper, didn't yuh?"

"Likes a bit of breeder cock, she does!"

What the hell? Coming fully awake now, I realized I was huddled next to Ûnran, who was sitting passively eating a strip of meat. I was actually _cleaved_ to his leg, like a shy toddler whose mom is talking to a stranger. And my hands were...

Good lord. It must have been damn cold last night for me to snake them up inside his leather kilt. I yanked them out and struggled like crazy to sit up and move a bit away from him. That only got the audience even more rowdy with hilarity. The fact that my hands were at his hip, and _not_ buried in his junk, didn't seem to register with them. I cringed under the laughter, thoroughly humiliated and even more scared to death than I was before. Maybe Ûnran had no plans last night, but now that I'd had my hands in his pants, would he take that as a green light and proceed with the breeding?

And what was _he _doing? Gloating. That's right. He was smirking at them and chuckling, like he'd given me such a fantastically awesome ride that I couldn't get enough of him. Jerk.

Apart from a couple of them whining that he cheated them out of a good show by being sneaky, nobody came close enough to have a go at me. Ûnran's amusement didn't last, and he was back on the job, keeping them at bay. Then the leader came through the ranks again, issuing orders and barking at the non-Uruk-hai who were now bitching angrily about having to run in the sunlight, and we were on the move again.

Not long after we took off, I saw about half of the horde peel off westward and leave. I glanced at Ûnran, who didn't look at all surprised. Apparently, I'd missed something. I realized the gang that left weren't Uruk-hai; they were those little Orcs. Maybe the ones who shot at us, or a bunch of others who tagged along. Now it was just a big old band of Uruk-hai.

But not for long. A couple hours further, a large group of Orcs intercepted us, and there was a halt while the two leaders had a chest-bumping competition. We were too far back to hear any of the words.

"What's going on?" I asked him.

"_Snaga_ from the mountains left," he growled quietly. "Don't like the sun. This lot're from Mordor. Serve the Eye. Givin' Uglûk a time of it."

"Where are my friends?" I said timidly, not sure if he'd tell me or not.

"Gettin' carried," he replied. "Up front."

I nodded. It probably wasn't safe to say anything else.

"Yer hands warm enough now, eh?" he said suddenly.

I shot him a nasty look. He just tipped one side of his mouth up in a little smile, but didn't look at me. Jerk.

Then I thought, wait, he has a sense of humor. I honestly never saw this side of him. Not that anything funny ever seemed to happen when I was watching. Maybe he was the class clown, and I just kept missing it.

The little grunt-fest up in the front finally resolved with the new group joining us, and we were off again. All at once a bunch of roars sounded in the pack behind us, and the running picked up. Like they weren't already breaking land speed records. My legs were like lead; I was pretty damn sure I didn't have anything left.

"Whiteskins," Ûnran grunted beside me, and I met his suddenly fearful gaze for a second. I forced my legs to pump harder.

After awhile of this punishing race, we started passing trees. I was both relieved and terrified, realizing that we'd be stopping, but it was the _last_ stop. Now I could see the Riders coming up alongside us in the distance, just out of bow range. Hemming us in. Driving us into a chokepoint. I nearly choked myself.

This wasn't like the movie. They'd gotten to make camp and have a breather and an argument about menu choices before the Riders ambushed them. What the hell was going to happen now? I was suddenly so afraid of losing him, I nearly threw up. _That_ thought disturbed me, but I just didn't have the time to worry about it.

The sun was well below the mountains in the west when the race finally ended. The Riders of Rohan got between us and the forest, and we were surrounded. I collapsed in a heap on the ground and cried. How was I going to survive this? The damn Riders nearly flattened the Hobbits without a second thought.

I caught one glimpse of Merry and Pippin, probably fifty feet away, as Ûnran dragged me to a spot up on the knoll where the gang halted. Pippin happened to turn right at that moment, and looked like he was going to shout. I vigorously shook my head, then the milling Uruks and Orcs got in the way, and I lost sight of them again.

"Your wisdom would be good now," Ûnran growled in my ear as we hunkered down. Watch fires were springing up all around the foot of the hill as the sun disappeared and night engulfed us. There were so many Uruk-hai around, all clamoring and roaring challenges at the Riders behind the firelight, it was difficult to hear.

"They... they're going to wipe you all out," I whispered. I had to get very close to his ear, just to be heard. "I don't know when."

"Likely when the sun's up again," he replied. "Can't see in the dark, any more'n we can." Glancing over and down a bit, he noted Uglûk having yet another argument with the leader of the Eye. I followed his gaze. "_Pushdug_ filth'll bolt if we attack now." He spat on the ground.

"It doesn't matter," I told him. "You won't win."

He bowed his head. "That's good then. I won't go back, and you won't go in. Better that way, eh?"

"Not really," I said miserably, and looked back toward the forest. It seemed so damn far away. Probably four or five hundred yards. Great. Thanks again, Mr. Jackson. Bloody convenient for you to have them stop at the edge. Get me all hopeful. Now we had a couple of football fields to cross without being spotted.

Because now I realized I wasn't leaving without him. He seemed ready to pack it in, give up, let the Riders roll over him like a tank. I might feel the same way, knowing what awaited me in Isengard. I _did_ feel the same, actually... But I wasn't ready to give up yet.

"Ûnran," I said urgently, and he glanced at me. "You have to get me out of here. Please."

He looked a little startled. "They get a hold'uh you, you'll be safe. Yuh come with us, yuh know what waits."

"Is that what you'd do? You'd take me to your Master?" I arched an eyebrow expectantly.

Frowning, he looked away, closing his eyes for a moment. "Orcs ain't got choices."

"I'm giving you one," I hissed. "Get me out of here, and I'll keep you alive the best I can. I swear it."

He didn't respond for several moments, obviously thinking hard about it.

"My wizard's coming back," I said quickly. "Probably in those woods right now. If anyone knows why we've been dreaming about each other, it'll be him, but _you_ need to be there, too."

Now he looked at me. There was something... god, was it hope? Whatever, I grabbed it with both hands, so to speak.

"Please, Ûnran," I insisted. "They're going to kill _everyone_. I... don't... I don't want you to be one of them. I'm begging you. _Let me help you_."

He looked away again and his lips twitched. He chewed on the inside of his mouth. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, and nodded. A gasp of relief came out of me and I sagged for a moment.

"Thank you," I breathed.

"I ain't no coward," he snarled suddenly, and when I met his eyes, he looked angry.

"I know you're not," I agreed softly. "After what I've seen, I would _never_ accuse you of that."

He softened somewhat, and jerked his chin in a nod. Just so we understood each other, I guess.

Then the million dollar question: how were we going to manage it? The sun was good and down now. We couldn't see more than a hint of the Riders beyond the firelight. Even with my Elven cloak, which the Orcs apparently didn't even want to touch, let alone relieve me of, I didn't think we'd be able to sneak past any patrols.

Oh my. What if touching my cloak burned his skin or something? It wouldn't surprise me, the way Elves were about these things. I remembered Gollum freaking out over an Elven rope. It would probably be ten times worse for an Orc. Dammit, better find out now. It was probably our only hope.

"Ûnran," I whispered. "Touch my cloak."

He raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled a little. Rolling my eyes, I punched him lightly on the arm. "Just the fabric, you dolt. It was made by Elves. I don't want you... breaking out in a rash or something."

Chuckling a little, he reached out and grabbed a handful of it. Nothing. Thank god.

"Good. Here's the deal. We'll have to see how well this works on the both of us. It's supposed to... I don't know, fool the eye or something. Maybe if we're both under it..." Then I really looked at him. He was probably about as big as Strider. Shit. "Wow. I hope we can both fit. Anyway, maybe we can sneak past the Riders."

He scowled. "Like a deserter?"

"Whatever," I snapped. "Don't even think about backing out on me now. What exactly do you owe _any_ of them, huh? If I can get you out of here alive, then we'll see about giving your Master an ass-kicking he won't soon forget, okay?"

He perked up at that, and a feral growl rolled out of him. Then he did one of those half-smiles again. "Better get yerself another skillet. Yours was lost."

"Ha ha, very funny," I groused. He was unbelievable. "Where was your sense of humor when you were terrorizing my nights, you little bastard?"

The smile slid right off his face, replaced by a snarling glower. "What the fuck did I have to laugh about?"

Cringing, I ducked my head. "Nothing. Not a thing."

We didn't speak again for awhile. All of a sudden, there was a huge ruckus on the east side of the circle. Cries rang out, both of men and Orcs, and Uglûk sprinted over with several of his subordinates to quell the near riot. As if he were waiting for something like this, Ûnran leaped to his feet and yanked me up with him.

Stumbling blindly down the hill in the darkness, we reached the edge of the encampment and stopped. We still had about twenty or thirty yards to go before we reached the watchfires.

"My hands," I reminded him, holding them up. Nodding, he unsheathed a knife and sawed the rope. His hands were shaking a little. While I chafed my wrists, he looked back at the hill, where order was beginning to break down. "Do you trust me?" I asked.

Once again, he seemed torn between what he knew and what he hoped. While he debated, I unfastened the leaf clasp on my cloak and pocketed it.

"Yuh swear it?" he asked quietly.

I nodded. "I swear."

Closing his eyes for a moment in apparent defeat, he leaned down and let me fling the cloak over his back and head. Then I got in under it. If I'd been less freaked out by everything else, I might have shivered, being right up against him like that. As we started to move, he had to put his arm around my waist for balance. It wasn't exactly Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak, but in the pitch blackness, it did a good enough job to get us unseen all the way to the fires. Once we were through the ring of light and on the other side, we could see better where the Riders were.

Finally, luck was on our side. The patrols were concentrating on the flanks, not particularly worried about the middle. Hanging onto each other for dear life, we ran in a crouch across the plains to the forest.


	18. Remember When I Moved in You

****Remember When I Moved in You****

It wasn't until the trees grew dense around us and the noise the Uruk-hai were making had faded a bit with distance that I realized I just dragged an Orc into the bushes. Holy crap, what was I _thinking_?

Where once before my comforting mantra was _not real_, now it was _but it's Ûnran, but it's Ûnran, but it's Ûnran_. I wanted so badly for that to make a difference. We'd shared visions that made me want to trust him and made him... Jesus, what had it done for him? About all that was going through my mind right now was the very real possibility that he'd seen me naked, and would be extremely interested in having a grope or worse now that the real deal was available.

Then an even worse thought leaped into my mind, though it was hard to think of anything worse than being raped by Ûnran ten seconds after rescuing him. What about Merry and Pippin?

Slowing to a stop, I gasped for breath. It was hard enough running like mad across the plains for days on end. Try it bent over double with the fear of being spotted by not one but two hostile forces nearly smothering you. And in your possession is a pretty large piece of contraband.

Straightening with relief, I uncovered us and fumbled the cloak and clasp back in place, fingers shaking hard. To my surprise, he stepped several feet away from me, and held that distance. Though it was hard to see in the nearly pitch dark, I was pretty sure he wasn't looking at me, either. At the moment, though, I was too anxious to worry about it.

"My friends," I said urgently. "I didn't see them. Did you?"

"I followed you," he said. "Didn't look where I was goin'."

I squinted hard through the darkness back toward the hill. Would I see them? If they were covered in their cloaks, probably not. Hugging myself, I shifted from foot to foot. "Don't be heroes, guys," I muttered. "Just take your opportunity and run for it. Forget about me."

"They're still there," Ûnran said quietly.

Turning to him, I frowned. "What?"

He stepped closer, his eyes on the hill as well, and pitched his blunt nose in the air. Breathing in deeply, he nodded. "Ain't left yet."

I was floored. "You can _smell_ them?"

He nodded, glanced at me and shrugged. "Don't smell like whiteskins, don't smell like Orcs. Little different."

It shouldn't have surprised me. I remembered now from the movie, the Uruk who smelled man-flesh, and Pippin assuming it was Strider following them. What threw me off, I think, was the fact that they could smell a single sweaty man several miles away, but were taken completely by surprise by a couple hundred of them on horses. Seems to me the reek would have been more pronounced when you added horse ass to the mix.

Nice continuity, Jackson.

We stood there watching the distant hill in silence for several minutes. It didn't look like the full blown attack had happened yet, just a few skirmishes along the edges to keep the Uruk-hai and their Orc friends from getting too comfortable.

Silence, of course, being relative. Now that it was quiet, I could hear him breathing, and he sounded exactly like Lurtz in that scene with Saruman, getting looked over and chatted up about where Orcs came from. Sort of a low growl on every exhale. I wondered if that was his normal noise, or if he was feeling agitated and this was the warning before the explosion. I glanced at him, and he looked passive enough. For an Orc.

I didn't know what to say to him. I was afraid of him, so damn afraid. Other things about him started filtering through the fog of fear, as we stood there. The air around us was chilly, but he was generating an unnatural level of heat, like a walking furnace. Was he sick? He certainly didn't act like it. Maybe it was that heat of his that drew me to him in my sleep, and coaxed my hands up his damn shorts.

Rolling my eyes, I tried not to remember _that_ little bit of dumbassery.

I glanced at him again, and realized he was visibly wilting. The last few days of running without rest were finally catching up to him. I was feeling pretty well done in, as well. My main concern was the Hobbits, though, and trying to figure out a way to alert them to my escape. Hell, maybe the Orcs would figure it out themselves and a ruckus would erupt. But I wasn't particularly confident that the boys would make the necessary connection.

"Um... you should go get some rest," I ventured timidly. "You didn't sleep when we camped, and it's been a hard run for days. I'll keep watch."

"Don't leave me, Tanith," he said, and the tone of his voice – pitifully lonely and desperate – wrenched my heart.

Shaking my head, I made myself touch his shoulder. It wasn't as hard as I thought. "I promised you, didn't I? I'll be here."

I really didn't think he believed me. He sort of turned and walked away a bit. I could hear him taking off his armor, and I sincerely hoped he had clothes on underneath. Then he collapsed on the ground, and likely fell fast asleep right away. Trying to ignore the potential threat lurking in the dark behind me now, I scanned the plains between us and ground zero. They should take advantage of the mayhem stirring up on the right flank. Come on, guys.

"What did you see?" Ûnran asked quietly. I started a little; I guess I should have known he wouldn't be able to sleep. He probably didn't entirely trust me, either. But how to answer his question? The things I'd seen... Oh god. I shuddered hard, remembering some of them.

"Terrible things," I whispered.

"Yet you stay."

"I'm not very smart," I said by way of explanation. I must be an incredible idiot to stand there with my back to him. Not as big of an idiot as I must have been to help him escape certain death in the first place. But I just couldn't turn around. I didn't want to believe he would attack me. Insane as that belief was, I hung onto it. "What did _you_ see?"

"First memory I have," he said in that same quiet, rumbling voice, "was a tomb. The dead, with their hands on you. Didn't know what I was seeing. Master only gave me understanding the day before."

"Is that what he did to you?" I remembered that; it must have been the second dream. He screamed so loud... like the worst pain imaginable.

"Aye." His voice sort of hitched a little. "It hurt."

"Sounded like it did," I acknowledged with a nod.

"Saw yuh behind the hill," he said, and even in the dark with his voice so low I could barely hear it, I could still detect a touch of amusement.

"Um... what hill?"

"The hill with the tomb," he replied. "Yuh took off your clothes."

Ah shit. A very uncomfortable shiver shot through me, like my worst nightmare had just been confirmed.

"That's nice," I said sarcastically.

"It was."

Jerk.

"What else? Or did that cover you for awhile?" I snapped.

"Saw yuh buyin' clothes," he said. "And puttin'em on."

"Good for you," I growled. "Did you see anything that didn't involve me taking my clothes off?"

"Didn't care about nothin' else," he replied. Now I could definitely hear the humor in his voice, as if he was baiting me.

"Are you _deliberately_ being an ass?" I barked, turning around. I couldn't see more than the dark outline of him sitting at the base of a tree with his long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed on his chest.

"Yuh saw me," he countered in an infuriatingly reasonable voice.

"Yeah, well... that's different," I said lamely. He chuckled.

"It ain't."

"It is," I insisted.

"No."

"_Yes_." Wait a damn second. Was I... was I arguing with him like we were eight-year-olds?

"How is it different?" he asked, and there was a hint... just a _hint_... of growl in his voice. Like a challenge.

"Because I'm a girl," I said loftily. "And you're... not."

There was a lengthy silence before he spoke again. "That don't make no sense."

"Welcome to the wonderful world of the female mind," I huffed. His laughter rumbled out again.

"You tell now. What did you see?"

God, I found myself wanting to spare him the full truth of the things I'd seen. Like... if he thought I didn't see some of it, I wouldn't hate him. Or fear him. But there was so little that was benign enough...

"I saw you training a lot," I ventured.

"That ain't terrible," he pointed out. "You said 'terrible things.'"

I bowed my head and turned away a bit. Even though it was so dark we couldn't see each other, I couldn't even deal with the sensation of looking him in the face. "I saw... you kill someone. And why you did it."

"I killed many," he said quietly.

"He was the first one of your own kind that you killed," I clarified.

He was silent for so long, I thought he would never speak again. Kicking myself for causing him pain with such a memory, I tried something else. "I saw... I saw Zûrash."

"What about him?" he snarled. His voice sounded tight and harsh, like he was trying not to fall apart.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "You probably miss him."

"Yuh don't know _nothin_'!" he roared, and I jumped back a step. Or three. In the darkness, I could just make out his movements, and he pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them. "Told me things. Told me the _truth._ Then he didn't fuckin' come back. He _left_ me there. Stupid, fucking son of a bitch, he _left_ me. Don't miss'im. Don't _care._"

His voice was raw and close to the point where all control would be lost. I realized my cheeks were wet, listening to him. What did you say to someone who'd lost their only friend and still felt unresolved pain over the loss? I had no idea; everything that came to mind sounded trite and stupid. The fact that I was having this conversation with an Orc was doubly weird.

"It's... okay," I said, trying to sooth him. "We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to."

"What else yuh see, eh?" he snapped. "Yuh saw me gettin' fff-... fu-... fucked. Did you see me fucking the shit outta that female? Eh? See Master kill what I made? Didja see _that_?"

He was almost incoherent. The gates had opened wide, and he was sobbing and choking as he vented. It occurred to me all of a sudden that what happened to him there... Oh god. I'd told everyone. Well, maybe not _everyone_. It's not like I put an ad in the paper or something. But Strider knew. Gandalf knew. I just didn't think he was _real_. I didn't want to believe... things like what happened to him... The abuse hurt then, the memories hurt now. I sank to my knees next to him and didn't know what to say. How to approach him. He was familiar, but... not.

But honestly, I'd never been the sort of person who stood stiffly by and let someone go round the bend without at least offering a hug. Taking a deep, shuddering breath to shore up my resolve, I reached out and sort of hesitantly patted his shoulder. That was pretty much all I felt safe giving him right now.

"Yes," I said carefully, like I was trying not to spook a wild animal. "I saw all that. I don't know how the hell you survived it. It's over, though. You're here. You're not going back."

"I'm... gonna... die," he gasped, his breath coming fast as he tried to keep from flying apart at the seams. "Whiteskins... kill... all of us... don't care... heads... on pikes..."

I didn't know what the hell to do. Should I throw caution to the wind and embrace him? What would he do with that? I still feared he would dive headfirst into my pants, regardless that he probably wasn't anywhere close to being in the mood at the moment.

"Maybe you... uh... didn't notice," I said, trying desperately to lighten the mood, pull him back from the ledge. "I'm one of those... whiteskins. And I don't want to kill you."

"You... ain't... real smart," he reminded me breathlessly as calm began to return.

"No," I agreed, smiling a little with relief. "Not too terribly smart." Shifting around beside him, I leaned back against the tree, and managed to keep from recoiling when our shoulders touched. It wasn't that he was gross. Either I got used to the Orc funk after a few days surrounded by it, or he wasn't as vile-smelling as his friends. Apart from that, he... well, he was Ûnran, I guess. While I didn't feel I could fully trust him yet, he was familiar enough that the fear was diminishing. I didn't tremble in his presence. I could handle being close.

But then, he was an Uruk. They didn't exactly inspire intimacy, generally speaking. Not if you didn't want to either overstep your bounds with them, or give the wrong impression of your own boundaries.

"I should tell you," I said quietly, and a bit guiltily. "They know about... you. Strider and Gandalf. About... the things I saw. What happened to you. I didn't know you were real. I'm... I'm sorry."

He didn't say anything for a minute, and I fretted a little. Then he took a breath and I could see him hanging his head out of the corner of my eye.

"Saw you... tellin'em sometimes." He shuddered and turned further away, a wince on his face. "Don't matter," he muttered. "Likely think... I got what... what I deserve."

"I don't think they do," I said, but my own doubts were probably obvious. I was pretty sure they pitied him, but that probably wasn't any better. Every time I regaled Strider with my dreams suddenly flashed through my mind, and it was like I could see Strider's expressions with Ûnran's eyes. He was disgusted. What I told him made him sick. If you weren't there, if you didn't know Strider, you might think it was _you_ that caused him to gag, not what was happening to you.

Fumbling a little because I felt _really_ uncomfortable now, I tried to change the subject in the lamest possible way. "So... did you see anything else of interest?"

He breathed in deeply and let it out slowly. "Elves. Lots of'em."

"Mmm-hm. Rivendell was pretty lousy with them," I agreed. "Couldn't swing a cat and not hit one in Lothlórien, either."

He grunted slightly, possibly a laugh. I hoped so. "They hate us more'n any, I hear."

"Probably," I said, nodding. "They're pretty finicky. Rather like cats, come to think of it."

"What're cats?"

"Oh, annoying little bastards who try to run your life like they own you," I explained. "Small furry creatures. Pointy little ears. Long tails. Claws."

Now he chuckled. "Rats?"

"Almost, in my opinion," I said with a smile. "I'm more of a dog person. Although after a run-in with Wargs, I'm not so sure I'd want to hang out with one again."

"Didn't see that," he said with interest.

"Oh my god, it was awful," I began, and regaled him with a, probably, highly exaggerated description of the attack. When I finished, he was laughing a little more easily.

"I would've cleaned yuh off," he said. "Not leave yuh like that."

Raising my eyebrows, I said, "It was nasty, let me tell you. Soaked to the skin." I shuddered.

"Mmm," he murmured, and I suddenly realized he had a completely different attitude about the blood. "Woulduh liked to clean yuh off."

Oh hell no, he didn't have to finish _that_ statement. I heard 'with my tongue' clear as day. Who do you think popped her head up like a meerkat on the alert? God damned Floozy. I felt a tremor go through me that was embarrassingly familiar and really, really unsettling, given the current company.

"All right, enough of that," I said quickly. "What else? Did you see anything in Moria?"

"Yeah," he replied, a note of disappointment in his voice, like he was loathe to leave the subject of licking blood off my body. "I'll know to hide if I see yuh with a skillet."

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" I asked wryly.

"No."

"Ass."

He laughed for a moment, then sobered. "Wanted to be there. I... was... worried 'bout yuh."

"Yeah," I replied with a little embarrassment. "I wanted you there, too."

I saw his head turn toward me out of the corner of my eye, but I pretended not to notice. "So you saw Lothlórien, after that, right?"

"Aye," he said after a moment, and I was relieved to see him turn away again. "Many trees there. Not like these."

"Hmph. Tall frickin' trees."

He grunted another laugh. "Yuh don't like being high."

Well now, I don't know about that... oh, you mean _that_ kind of high. "No, heights are not my friends. Is there anything you're afraid of?"

I could actually hear him swallowing hard.

"I'm... afraid to be alone," he said stiffly.

Frowning, I regarded him. "I thought you didn't mind it so much. When I saw you go up and wash yourself..." I caught myself before I went too far with that, but it was too late. He turned his head even further away.

"Hated the pits," he muttered hollowly. "Hate... everything to do with... Don't wanna do that no more. It kills. Orc fucking kills. Don't even wanna do myself. Hate it."

I was losing him again. There was such a huge amount of pain in him, it seemed almost anything would set him off. And his pain made me hurt, too, because I didn't really understand all that he was trying to say. It was just sort of a blanket kind of sympathetic agony for me. Did he mean that sex kills? Sex with Orcs kills? What comes of sex gets killed? If his only exposure was the pits and what he saw of my life, well... I certainly wasn't providing any positive examples. Nobody showed the slightest interest in sex the whole time, except maybe Boromir, and then only in a mildly flirtatious sort of way.

And maybe that was his problem. It was pervasive in all kinds of intrusive, embarrassing, and painful ways where he came from, and almost non-existent in what he saw of my world. If you didn't know any better, you might think sex was an ugly, horrible thing only really gross people did, and only to hurt or dominate someone else.

It was slightly encouraging to know he didn't want to use it against me, but it was also a pretty unhealthy attitude to have. I mean, he said he didn't even want to touch himself. Good lord. How could I reverse that belief without further traumatizing the poor guy?

Reaching over, I managed to get a hold of his hand without grabbing something I shouldn't in the dark. Probably not the best way to start. My fumbling maneuver startled him right out of his slide into despair.

Wow, if a simple handhold cheered him up, I wondered what laying his head on my breasts would do for him?

"Being alone isn't so bad," I ventured, basically chickening out. Alone with an Orc in the middle of nowhere was probably not the best scenario for a frank discussion about sex, I decided. Getting The Talk from a 26-year-old virgin so uptight she freaked out over the word 'penis' probably wasn't a good way to solve his problems, either. "Sometimes even your best friends can be a royal pain..."

"I need... others," he interrupted. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words. "Near. Close. Just... others."

"Oh," I said. "Orcs are pack-oriented, right?"

"What's that mean?"

"You know, there's a leader – one that's in charge and keeps order. The rest sort of... follow his lead. They do things together as a group, like hunt."

"They're coming out," he said, and I got disoriented for a second.

"Who's coming out?"

"Haflings," he supplied. "Can smell'em. Over there." He gestured off to our right.

I scrambled to my feet. "Stay here," I warned, then bolted in the direction he'd pointed.

Thankfully, my eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to avoid running into more than a couple of trees along the way. After a few minutes of muttered swearing and stumbling over roots, rocks, and discarded napkins (no shit, my cousin got caught on tape as a toddler face-planting over a napkin on the grass), I reached the point where Merry and Pippin were just coming out of their crouched sprint of the last few yards to safety. Behind them, the hill was erupting like a volcano; evidently, the shit was hitting the fan a bit harder than when we left.

"Pippin!" I called in a hissed whisper. The two Hobbits nearly jumped out of their skins, but were so relieved to see me, they fell over themselves trying to get in the first hug.

"We thought the worst!" Merry nearly sobbed, clutching me tightly.

"I'm okay," I reassured them, dropping to my knees so we could see eye-to-eye. "Absolutely fine."

"How did you escape?" Pippin asked, then leaped back in terror with a sharp cry.

I rolled my eyes and hissed over my shoulder, "I thought I told you to stay there."

"Why would I fucking listen to you?" Ûnran snarled. "Have yuh run off your first chance?"

Standing, I turned on him. "I do believe I promised. I just wanted to spare my friends a fright. Too late now, _thank you very much_."

"Tanith?" Merry choked.

"Jesus, this night just keeps getting better," I said, letting out a long-suffering sigh. Honestly, males of any species were a pain in my ass. "Merry, Pippin, this is Ûnran," I snapped. "Ûnran, I believe you know them already."

"Aye," he said, nodding. "Seen'em a bit."

"Is this...," Pippin began awkwardly, then shook his head. "No, he can't be."

Recovering myself, I nodded. It was hard enough for _me_ to deal with, let alone people who didn't have things like the torture chambers of Isengard showing up on the daily news every night or getting glorified in made-for-cable movies.

"Look, I'm going to be all right. I have to... we have to wait out here, but you two need to keep going. You've got... stuff to do."

"He hasn't... he didn't...," Merry stammered, and I could see his fists clenching.

Dropping to one knee, I took hold of Merry's arms. "He helped me escape. He's... he's okay. You know all the dreams I had about him? Well, he was dreaming about me. So he's... sort of... different now. I guess. Kind of. Anyway, Strider and the rest of them are on their way, and we're going to wait here for them."

"But...," Pippin whimpered, looking back to the battlefield-in-the-making.

I shook my head vigorously. "Trust me. They won't get here before the Rohirrim clean up that mess out there. They'll be fine. You guys have a very, very important job to do that involves getting the hell away from here. I don't want to be involved because... well..." Glancing over my shoulder at Ûnran, I suddenly felt like acres of shit. Thank god he was also looking toward the hill. I was about to launch the missile that destroyed his home, the remnants of his devastated race, his entire world. Yeah, it sucked, it was filthy, god-awful things happened there, but it was the only home he knew. He knew how to survive there. How would he cope with being thrown into a world he knew next to nothing about, where everyone was desperate to kill him?

Fate sucks.

"Go on," I said dully, giving them each one last hug. "I'll see you again, I promise." Shoving them on their way, I had a hard time not crying. Keeping your nose out of important business so you don't fuck it up for personal reasons was harsh and awful to deal with.

It hit me like a ton of bricks all of a sudden just how tired I was. When I sensed Ûnran standing next to me, I didn't even think about it. I leaned against him. Maybe he'd seen Strider comforting me a few times, because his arm went around my waist.

It felt... nice.

"Let's go find someplace to sleep," I said softly, and disengaged from his side. We ventured a little further in, and found a soft, mossy patch at the foot of a tree. Hoping it wouldn't turn out to be a people-eating tree, I sat down with my back against it. Ûnran sat as well, a little closer than he had before. "Here," I offered, patting my leg. "Put your head down."

Looking at me uncertainly, he slowly lowered himself to the ground and used my thigh as a pillow. I rubbed his back and shoulder to sooth him, even stroked his course hair a few times. He let out a growling sigh, then seemed to deflate as he relaxed into sleep. I wasn't far behind him.


	19. Moments of Conversational Awkwardness

**Awkward Moments of Conversational Awkwardness**

I woke with a start when my head rolled forward and bobbed uncomfortably. The first thing I noticed, because I'm sorry, but the threat level was still pretty yellow at this point, was that Ûnran wasn't next to me. It was probably stupid beyond reason to think that he'd decided to go back to Isengard, but that's what I thought for a moment as I looked around in a panic. I actually sighed with relief when I saw him pressed against a tree ahead of me, peering around it at the stretch of plains between us and the hill.

Now that I could see him properly, I noted the clothes he wore were little more than rags. They looked like hand-me-downs from a production of 'Oliver Twist,' as if their sole function was to keep his armor from rubbing too harshly against his skin. Judging by the dirt ground into the fabric and the myriad tears, it looked like his clothes were more experienced war veterans than he was.

The sun was up now, and there was no mistaking what was going on out there. The Riders had mopped up and were in the process of hurling the corpses into a huge, smoldering mound. Black smoke curled up into the blue sky. The stink was unbelievable, even from this distance. Rising stiffly to my feet, I stretched my back and legs.

"You'd better get back here," I told him. "So they won't spot you."

He didn't answer, didn't even move. Sighing with resignation, I walked up to him and stood close. He was trembling slightly, his eyes fixed ahead on the mound and what could only be pikes with Orc heads on them.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. I knew this wasn't my fault, that I couldn't have stopped it if I wanted to, but I've always subscribed to the social convention of apologizing for things I had nothing to do with.

"Zûrash was right," he growled quietly. "Don't care. Orcs, Uruks. All the same. Fucking kill us all."

"To be fair," I said, "they have no reason to care. The raids your... uh... the others went on were here, in _their_ country. I imagine the boys from Mordor didn't just sneak in without doing a little damage themselves. Their homes were destroyed, their people slaughtered, their women taken... That's gonna piss them off a whole bunch."

"_I _didn't do _nothin_' to'em," he muttered, and turned away.

I followed him back to the tree we'd slept under, and sat in front of him. He wouldn't look at me, and actually scooted a little further away. I thought he'd be... I don't know, more clingy. More apt to touch. That was twice now that he'd retreated from me. Surely it wasn't stinky pits...

Not that I wanted him all over me. It was just... odd.

"Ûnran," I said quietly, and his yellow eyes flicked up to my face for about a second before looking down again. "Um... are you... I don't know... afraid of me or something?" His eyes darted up to mine for a longer moment before diving away.

"No."

"Why do you keep... uh... backing away?" I tried to smile a little, soften the question some. "Afraid I'll bite?"

"No," he replied quietly. "Afraid _I_ will."

"Well, you haven't," I said reasonably. "You've been... okay. I'm... uh... not exactly _not afraid_, but not as nervous as I was."

"I smell your fear," he growled. "It's justified." He crossed his arms over his chest in a clear emotional blocking maneuver. It just made me want to draw him out more. I'm stupid as hell that way.

"Why should it be justified?" I pressed.

"Wanna fuck yuh," he said bluntly through clenched teeth.

Ah. Good reason. Jesus, why do I always put my foot in it, even when the warning signs are big as all outdoors? "I... I see. Um... I thought you hated it."

He shrugged. "Don't mean I don't want it."

"Fair enough," I said, nodding. "Um... I suppose... thanks are in order. Since, you know, you're managing to keep it under wraps. I appreciate that."

"How long, though?" he snarled, and his ire peaked again. "I gotta. Always _gotta_. Can't fucking go a minute without _wantin_' it." He squeezed his eyes shut, covering his face with his hands. His voice was muffled as he continued. "Wants us fucking _all the time_. I hear it in my head. Over and over. _Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her, FUCK HER_."

My eyes must have been as big as saucers. Mouth too, very likely.

Dropping his hands, he glared at me for a moment. "If I fuck yuh, you'll die. Just like _her_. A dead thing. Nothin' left'uh yuh." His face crumpled, and he rubbed his forehead roughly. "Don't want _you_ goin' dead like that. Couldn't look at her. Couldn't... _finish_... most of the time. Pitmaster'd whip me while I was fuckin' her if I didn't finish. So I... thought of you. _Then_ I could finish."

Good lord. 'Awkward' didn't begin to cover it. My fear level must have jumped because he snorted.

"See?" he snapped, as if I'd just given him irrefutable evidence. "Disgustin' things, Orc cocks. Go near a whiteskin cunt and they run for it. Go ahead." He gestured grandly. "Run. Get away while yuh can. 'Fore I run yuh down. It's what we fucking _do_."

This was not the conversation I expected. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I rallied my forces. Still, though, I trembled all over. Whatever state of calm he was in was rapidly degrading, and I really didn't want to be the nearest target when the meltdown occurred.

"All right," I said firmly. "That's enough, okay? I'm not going anywhere, and you're not... doing... anything. Clear?" I raised an eyebrow expectantly. He just huffed and looked away. "I'll take that as a yes. Now. That woman in the pits. _You_ didn't do that to her, all right? Not all by yourself. You were just the last one to... breed with her." It was hard not calling it what it was. I'd have to address that particular distinction at some point, but for now, simple might be better.

"She got bred to others _like_ me," he snarled.

"True," I conceded. "But look at the situation. She was helpless, there was no escape, and something... terrible... was happening to her that she had no power to fight against." He opened his mouth to say something, and I raised my voice to override it. "It would have been the same if you were all men," I said. "_No_ woman wants to be... treated like that. By _anyone_. Understand?"

He seemed to calm considerably, pondering what I said. "So... it don't matter. Whiteskin or Orc, eh?"

"No, not especially," I said. I didn't really want to tell him that yes, to a certain extent, it _did _matter. Maybe when he had a tighter grip on his emotions, I could drop a racist bombshell like that. Not right now, though.

"Would _you_ wanna?" he asked in a challenging tone.

Oh shit. "Uh..."

"With me."

"Ah." Well, at least I didn't vomit at the thought. Rather, I experienced a bit of a flutter. He looked at me with an odd expression, his head tilted to the side with a frown on his face. For some reason, that curious look kicked the flutter up a notch.

"What're yuh doin'?" he asked suspiciously.

"Just... thinking about it," I said evasively, and pushed the disturbing thought away. Remember who and what he is, moron.

I was still very tired, I decided. My defenses were down. I'd been overwhelmed by sympathy and sorrow for Ûnran for such a long time, to finally have him _here_ where I could do something for him... Undoubtedly, the helper gland was pumping overtime. Why that would translate into warm fuzzies, I had no idea.

"Yuh smell different," he commented, brow furrowing even more.

"I... I do?" Interesting. Why would...?

He twitched his head a little, closed his eyes, and sniffed the air. His nostrils quivered. A little smile teased the corners of his mouth. "Smells like... yuh wanna fuck."

"I beg your pardon?" I exploded. "I do _not!_"

He shrugged, but that grin was getting bigger. "Just tellin' yuh what I smell."

"Well, get your god damned nose checked," I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. If his sniffer could pick up even the slightest hint of arousal coming off me... oh my god, I was doomed. There was definitely something about him. A bit of attraction going on there, even though common sense would dictate otherwise. Hell, all of Middle Earth would strongly advise against it.

The more bent out of shape I got, the more amused he became, until his grin was broad and, to be quite honest, utterly devoid of malice. And there was something else...

"What the...?" I started, leaning forward and staring at his face. He quickly sobered.

"What?"

"Do that again."

"Do what?"

"Smile like that," I said. I couldn't believe it. Not on an Orc. Surely not.

Hesitantly, he tried to mimic the smile he had going on a moment ago, but it wasn't genuine, fueled by innocent (relatively speaking) humor. I had to get him smiling again, just to make sure. "Um... so... what did you think of Lothlórien?"

Ûnran looked startled by the question, seemingly out of the blue, and just shrugged. "Too many fuckin' Elves," he noted. Then that smile started coming back. "Saw yuh washin' a lot."

That's what I thought he'd focus on. Naturally. Give'em a penis, and they let it take over their lives. "What, laundry?"

He shook his head. The grin broadened a bit more. "No. You."

"Uh huh," I said, barely listening. I was focused on his face. "Not very nice of you, spying on me like that."

"Couldn't help it," he replied, and there it was.

"Bazinga!" I cried triumphantly, pointing at his face. "Ha! You have dimples!"

The smile disappeared, replaced by total confusion. "I got what?"

"Dimples," I said, smiling broadly at him. "Ah man, that's _hilarious_."

He looked away and cringed a little.

"No, Ûnran, that's _good_," I said, and now I was laughing. It was _fucking_ hilarious. An Orc with dimples! Good god, who the hell could have imagined that? They had the magical affect of making him seem like an innocent, young boy. One you could trust...

Still unsure, his eyes kept flicking from side to side, as if he was looking for someone to explain what I couldn't because I was almost doubled over.

"What're dimples?" he asked. It took me another full minute and a good eye-rub to clear the tears, but I finally answered.

"They're like... creases or pits in your cheeks," I said, still tittering a little. He touched his face uncertainly, brow furrowed. "They only come out when you smile."

He experimented a bit, stretching his lips in a grimace and trying to grope for these 'pits.'

"Can't feel'em," he muttered.

"You probably won't," I said. "I think they're easier to see than feel. First chance we get, I'll show you a mirror and you can see them."

"What's a mirror?"

"Um... sort of a piece of glass that shows you what you look like," I explained.

His brow rose, and that grin started coming back. "Aye. Saw yuh lookin' in one. Rivendell." Then he leered, though it wasn't a very threatening leer. I had no doubt he could muster up a really terrifying leer if he wanted to, but for now, he was on good behavior. "After washing."

I rolled my eyes and lightly shoved his shoulder with annoyance. He chuckled, thank goodness taking it in a playful sense. "I'm glad I was so damned entertaining."

"Yuh were," he said. "'Specially on waking."

My face probably went cherry red at that point, and I had to look away. Did he just say...? Good god.

"How nice," I muttered, and scooted back from him. I folded my arms over my chest and hunched my shoulders a little.

He growled and shifted away in the other direction.

I glanced over, and he was hunkering down, knees drawn up. His arms held his stomach and he stared at nothing, a frown on his face. Sighing, I loosened up the protective hold a bit.

"I'm sorry, Ûnran," I said quietly. "I suppose... things were so bad... you had to take... nice feelings when you could get them. I don't have any right to judge you on that." It was hard to dismiss the implication of being used as a focus for masturbation, though. I would have been uncomfortable about it even if he was a man.

When he didn't seem inclined to turn toward me or continue the conversation, I tried again. "Um... could you... show me Zûrash's bones? I won't touch them," I assured him quickly, because he shot me a rather hostile look. "I just want to see them. It's so dark in Isengard..."

Slowly, he untied the string, releasing the small pouch from his belt, then undid the knot keeping it closed. He still hadn't turned toward me, so I had to scoot closer to see the bones he shook out in his hand. I was mindful of his suspicious look, and made no move to touch them, though I was itching to. They were crudely carved, true, but so... personal. Great care was taken in shaping each side, you could tell. Maybe, given a chance and some proper guidance, Zûrash could have been a halfway decent sculptor. Such an incredible waste.

"They're beautiful," I murmured. "Could you turn that one? So I can see the other side?"

It was like I was seeing his fingers for the first time, when he flipped the bone over. His skin was dark reddish brown, a richer color than I'd seen in the dream, but his claws were black. I hadn't registered the claws of an Orc before. I _saw_ them, sure, but hadn't really taken particular note of them. They didn't look at all like overgrown fingernails, either. They were real, honest-to-goodness _claws_.

I was reminded of the scratches on my arm from the Orc who thought I might be fun to play with the other day, and looked down. The shirt sleeve was still shredded, and there was dried blood running down my upper arm.

"Ew," I muttered.

"Better see to that," Unran said quietly, and spirited the bones away. I watched him meticulously secure them in the pouch and retie the bag closed, then hang it on his belt again. Growl and snarl all he wanted about how Zûrash ditched him, but he prized that gift, and I was pretty sure that his trust in others would be measured by how close he let them get to his bones.

Drawing out his little pot of yuck again, he smeared it on my arm without bothering to wash it. Not that we had more than his own skin of brackish water anyway. What surprised me was how he could touch me without letting me feel more than the occasional scrape of his claws. Nothing that drew blood; just a little swipe in the line of duty, so to speak. It was the same when he put that crap on my side. I'd seen him do serious, deadly damage with those claws; it was good to know he could retract them if he wanted.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Good god, yes," I said, nodding vigorously. "I hope you've got something if you're bringing up the subject."

He smiled a little and dug in his bag again. Out came a couple of strips of meat, one of which he handed to me. I held it gingerly between two fingers and looked skeptically at him.

"This isn't... uh... from someone like _me_, is it?"

His brow furrowed uncertainly as he took a bite of his own strip and chewed thoughtfully. "No. Deer."

Sighing with relief, I tore a chunk off. Damn, that was a familiar taste. "Oh yeah, this is definitely deer," I confirmed with a nod. "My dad got all 'one of the boys' with some non-professorial friends of his and went hunting with them. Brought back a deer." I held up the meat for a second before having another bite. "Tasted just like this. Should've seen _him_, though. They dressed the deer in the woods while it was still warm, and he launched a stomach volley that landed a good two or three yards away. Still a little green when he got home."

"Stomach... what?" Ûnran said, brow furrowed in confusion.

"He puked," I translated, and Ûnran chuckled. "Barely missed one of his friends."

"What's a dad?"

Uh oh. Probably a dangerous subject, given the outcome of his brief moment of fatherhood. "Um... well... he's... uh... Okay, I have a mother and a father. They're like... like mates. And... when they... uh... got together... they had young... babies... like me. 'Dad' is sort of a... another name for father."

His brow furrowed deeply, and he looked away. "Was I... a dad?"

"Only for a few minutes," I said quietly.

"Did I _have_ a dad?"

"Yeah," I said uneasily. I really didn't want him flipping out again, but I supposed it was better to get as much of it out of his system now as I could, before the gang all showed up. That would be a stressful enough confrontation without having personal traumas interfering. Assuming those bastards were even coming. I figured they'd be delayed because they were likely smart enough to take a few naps along the way, but _how_ delayed? Would we be waiting here a day? A week?

"Who?" he asked, and the look on his face seemed somewhat lost.

"I suspect your Master knows," I ventured with a shrug. "Apparently he didn't want _you_ to know. Same with... uh... your mother, I suppose. The woman who... um... that you came out of."

"Are these... important? Mothers... fathers..."

"Well, I miss mine a lot," I said, crossing my legs and leaning my elbows on the knees. I absently plucked at grass and twigs in front of me. "I could always count on them when I needed help. I doubt my dad would be much use _here_, though. Like I said, pukes at the sight of blood. I faint, evidently. Oh yeah, I puked when Strider cleaved that Orc's head in Moria. That was _so_ gross." I shuddered.

"Saw that," he said, and his smile started coming back. "Yuh piss yourself, too."

"Yeah, don't remind me," I griped. "_Not _my proudest moment."

"And snore," he added with amusement.

"I do _not_!" I snapped, puffing up with indignation. When he smirked, I tossed a stick at him. "Well, you sound like you're snoring all the time, so there."

He raised an eyebrow. "It's how I _breathe_. Can't help it."

"Hmph. Maybe. It's loud and annoying."

"Yuh didn't complain last night," he taunted.

"I was too tired to care," I retorted, then yawned all of a sudden. "Oh, crap," I managed to say around the yawn. "I'm _still_ too tired to care."

Nodding, Ûnran leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. "Aye."

"Why don't we get a nap in, hmm?" I suggested. "I don't know when those guys are coming, so we may as well take advantage of their dawdling or whatever."

We ended up lying shoulder-to-shoulder on our backs, looking up into the swaying branches of the tree. The wind through the leaves was very relaxing, and the density of the foliage blocked out much of the sunlight. Without realizing I'd done it, I noticed my hand was holding Unran's. He had a gentle grip on my fingers.

"Tanith," he said quietly. "Sing for me?"

"Sure."

The Singer had longed for this moment when she could dust off her favorite little numbers just for him.

_Took my love, took it down  
>Climbed a mountain and I turned around<br>And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills  
>Till a landslide brought me down<em>

* * *

><p>There didn't seem to be enough sleep in the world to make up for the last few days. We napped off and on the rest of the day. I couldn't believe how much better my rest was without the constant interruptions. I finally asked Ûnran about it, and he'd stopped seeing the dreams too. In his case, the loss was disappointing, even though my physical presence had replaced them. I told him I'd take him in the flesh <em>here<em> over him in dreams back _there_ any day. He seemed to find that particularly flattering.

When it was too dark to see, we had no trouble bedding down again. It was frickin' freezing, too. The shade under the trees had been chilly all day anyway; take the sun away completely, and it was the world's biggest icebox. I must have been exhausted beyond my ability to register temperature last night.

"Are you cold at all?" I asked him as we lay down.

"No," he said, slipping his hands beneath his head.

"Hmph. Must be nice," I groused. "If those lazy layabouts don't get here soon, I'll be a Tan-cicle."

"A what?" he murmured sleepily.

"It's a tasty frozen treat," I replied absently. "Very sweet."

"Mmm," he purred. "I'd like one'uh those."

"Dream on," I growled softly. "Um... would you mind if I... sort of... slept a bit closer? You are positively the warmest person I've ever met."

He chuckled. "Use my body any way yuh like."

"Careful with that," I warned, scooting over to press my back into the curve of his side. "I might make you carry my stuff."

"I'd do it," he said. "Anything else yuh want?"

"Oh," I yawned, "foot massages... clean clothes... soft bed... a god damned bath once in awhile..."

"Don't think I can give yuh all that."

"You can't manage foot massages?"

"Tell me what it is, I'll try."

"You rub my feet and make them feel all kinds of nice," I murmured.

"Just yer feet?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm. Maybe my shoulders. Back." Then I giggled. I was quickly losing my grip, I could tell. And maybe the Floozy was on the prowl. "Had a guy rub my ass once. _Really _nice. He was _so_ disappointed when I didn't sleep with him."

"Heh. Yuh slept with me. Didn't have to rub yer ass for it."

I chuckled a little. "When we say 'sleep with,' it means... well, fucking, actually."

He was silent for a moment. "That don't make sense. How can yuh sleep _and_ fuck?"

"Very carefully," I replied with an amused snort. "You probably want padding and a spotter. Maybe a comprehensive insurance plan."

"If I'm fuckin', I ain't sleepin'," Ûnran muttered. "Don't know how you whiteskins do it."

"Same way," I laughed sleepily. "We just use different words." I yawned again. "Annoying, really. Sometimes even _we_ don't know what the hell we're saying."

"If I rub yer ass, will yuh fuck me?"

"Not likely." I was suddenly wide awake, tense and a little nervous. One thing you had to give him credit for, and that was not leaving much to interpretation. He grunted his disappointment, and growled a little. "Only because I don't know you well enough, Ûnran," I said quietly. "Not because you're an Orc."

"You know me better than any," he replied, and I felt him shift slightly. My hair stirred as he exhaled in my direction. "There ain't no more to know."

"There's plenty more," I assured him. "And I want to know it. Just... be patient with me."

"Tanith," he murmured. "I'm... glad yer here. I won't... I won't fight yer friends, when they come. I've been here with you. I don't think I'd mind dyin' now."

I almost choked as my eyes filled to the brim. Fuck it. Turning over, I put my head on his shoulder and wrapped my arm around his ribs. "I won't let them near you, Ûnran," I breathed, hugging him tightly. "I promise." His arm came down to tuck me closer to him, and he pressed his cheek to my forehead. It took a few minutes, but I realized as I drifted off to sleep that I was draped over an Orc. And I was okay with that.

* * *

><p>Song lyric: "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac<p> 


	20. Souvenirs from Rohan Don't Get Kitschier

****Souvenirs from Rohan Don't Get Kitschier Than This****

Something was pestering me, trying to draw me out of a wonderful sleep.

__Tanith...__

Shut up. Five more minutes, Mom. Go away.

__Tanith...__

There was a body under me, and I clung to it. So comfortable and warm...

__Tanith...__

I felt a poke at my back, and I swatted at it with a heavy, aimless arm. __Really___,_ Mom. Are you Sheldon Cooper or something?

Then the body under me tensed, and I heard a growl. I patted the body soothingly. Quiet, Snickers. It's just the neighbor's cat.

__Don't move, Orc.__

__That__ woke me up properly. Eyes flying open, I jerked abruptly out of slumber and sat up. Ûnran was lying flat on his back, eyes flicking between me and the owner of the long sword at his throat. His lip was curled, and a low rumbling growl rattled in his chest.

"It's about damn time, Strider!" I cried. "Oh, put that thing away. Honestly." Stepping over Ûnran and almost knocking the Ranger over, I simultaneously shoved his sword out of range and hugged him fiercely. "I'm __so__ glad to see you guys!"

"What's this, now?" Gimli snarled angrily. He had his great axe out and looked like he was itching for someone to give him the word so he could unleash diminutive fury on the Orc.

"Tanith, I... I do not understand," Legolas stammered in confusion, yet somehow managed to hold his bow steady, aiming threateningly at Ûnran.

Stepping back from Strider, I raised my hands in an 'everybody calm the fuck down' gesture. "Chill out, all right? Point that thing somewhere else, Legolas." He slowly lowered the bow and straightened to a less I'm-about-to-kick-your-ass position. I could hear Ûnran slowly getting up to stand behind me. "You too, Gimli. I have been __right here__, alone with him for over twenty-four hours, and he hasn't done _a ___damn thing__. All right? Understand?"

"But... he's an Orc."

"Yeah? Well, you're an Elf. Whoop-dee-frickin'-do," I growled. "Strider, Legolas, Gimli... this is Ûnran. He and I have been seeing a lot of each other lately."

Strider's eyes shot open wider than before. "What do you mean?" he asked, clearly not wanting to believe the conclusion he was leaping to.

Taking a deep breath, I nodded. "He's the Orc from my dreams. Saruman's little... punching bag."

The Ranger grimaced and looked away. I realized I must have spared Gimli and Legolas the full disclosure, because they didn't appear more than mildly disgusted by the revelation. Strider looked like he was trying hard not to throw up.

"Yeah," I acknowledged. "It was all true. Everything."

"How can you embrace such as he after all you saw?" Strider snarled, glaring at me.

Frowning slightly, I looked away. How the hell __could__ I? That was a fair question. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Ûnran standing with his head bowed, as if he believed himself unworthy to meet their eyes, he was too ashamed to do it, or he was afraid if he did, they'd knock me aside and kill him.

There. I had my answer.

"He didn't have a choice, Strider," I said quietly. "I knew that when I was dreaming about him. And you know what? He dreamed about __me___._ He saw __everything___._ He knows __everything___._ Tell them, Ûnran. You haven't even told me yet. When did you realize the dreams were real, and what did you do about it?"

I hated putting him on the spot like that, and he seemed to recoil slightly when all eyes were on him. This was important, though. It might mean life or death for him. They __had__ to understand.

Swallowing, his yellow eyes flicking from one hostile face to another, he said in a low voice, "Saw _him_. Strider. Thought... if _he_ was real, maybe... maybe _you _were, too."

"You know us all," Strider breathed, and I could hear the mounting horror in his voice. Ûnran nodded, then continued.

"Found yuh," he said, glancing at me for a moment. "Another Uruk had yuh. Would've taken yuh away from'im right then, but some got the Halflings, so we moved out. Stuck close. First rest, he was gonna have at yuh, so I took'im down."

"Oh god," I breathed, covering my face with my hands. "I was __unconscious__."

"Don't matter," Ûnran shrugged. "Fight started up. Had to kill a few more. Uglûk stepped in, said he was gonna knock heads if we didn't shut the fuck up and take turns. Told'im you oughta be for the pits. Only thing I could think of."

"What 'pits'?" Legolas hissed, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, and a whole world of discomfort opened up in front of me. Ûnran seemed to instinctively know that telling an Elf the gory details would get him in __so__ much trouble, and clamped his mouth shut.

"Not taking questions right now," I said in an attempt to lay down some covering fire. "Go on, Ûnran."

"Carried yuh from that point on," he said. "Til yuh woke up."

"Did you do _that_ to her?" Gimli growled, pointing at the ugly wound on my side.

"No," I snapped. "He treated it with... Orcish... healing... crap. What _was_ that stuff?"

A slight smile curved Ûnran's mouth. "Orcish healing crap."

"Yeah. That. Anyway, he __protected__ me, guys. From all the others. And there were some attempts made." I showed them the torn sleeve of my tunic. "He had plenty of chances. He didn't take them."

"You know about... the quest, then?" Strider asked tightly. Ûnran nodded.

"Knew we got the wrong Halflings soon as I saw'em," he said. "Saw all you lot, and I knew what Master was after. Knew Frodo had it, but we didn't get'im."

"How many did you tell, Orc?" Gimli growled, hefting his axe once more. "What mischief did you stir with such knowledge?"

"He didn't tell _anyone_," I said urgently. "Why is that so damn hard to believe?"

"Because Orcs cannot be trusted," Legolas hissed. "They are vile and cruel. They only serve their own ends..."

"I don't fucking serve __nothin___'_ of mine!" Ûnran roared, straightening to his full height. Had he been closer to Legolas, there would have been some chest bumping going on. His face was contorted with such rage, I thought he was going to blow a gasket. "I didn't get to choose my way! Didn't get to say __nothin___'_, do __nothin___' _that was mine. Wanna know what I got when I __tried__?" Without waiting on them to rally from the shock and alarm his anger inspired, Ûnran tore at the lacings of his tunic to loosen it, then hauled it off over his head and threw it on the ground. "Got _these_! Remindin' me my _place,_ what I was worth to _my ___Master__."

When he turned to show us the whip marks, everyone gasped in shock, even me. I hadn't seen... not for awhile, anyway. There were so many encrusted, infected, horribly badly healed cuts across the whole of his back, he looked like one giant scab. I had to look away. The pain he must be in _constantly_... I just couldn't stand to look, didn't want to imagine.

"Strider, if you don't whip up some proper healing stuff for him, I'll... I swear to god, I'll kick your ass."

Turning back around, Ûnran grabbed his shirt and yanked it back on. "Don't do me no favors," he snarled.

He'd changed completely. Where before he was occasionally relaxed and almost jovial, he seemed to have thrown up a defensive barrier against all of us, even me. Now he stood glowering at everyone, hands clenched into fists, a hostile glare in his piercing yellow eyes. He kept looking from one to the next, like he was just waiting for someone to make a move on him. Made me a bit nervous.

The hostility seemed to hit critical mass every time his darting eyes hit Legolas. You know when you put two mirrors across from each other, and they keep reflecting the same image back and forth into infinity? That's sort of what was going on here. The animosity was bouncing back and forth between them like an electrical charge, gaining strength each moment.

"It is... difficult to trust," Strider said slowly, "one that has never... whose people have never..."

"I know," I said. "It's been... pretty hard for me as well. I mean, god... the things I've seen..." I glanced warily at Ûnran, but he wouldn't look at me. Maybe he was fairly sure I wouldn't shiv him in the back when he wasn't looking, but it was clear he didn't expect the same restraint from the others. But I had to take a step back, and remind myself of what he'd been through, and how hard it was to come out of that hell hole and trust anyone. If he couldn't trust me, who _could_ he trust? And if I didn't at least try...

"All the same," I said bracingly, and kind of awkwardly patted Ûnran's shoulder, "he's taken care of me. I trust him."

"It is fortunate Boromir isn't here," Strider said quietly, shaking his head. "He would be greatly offended by your... acceptance of this... of him."

I deflated a bit. I'd managed, up to this point, to ignore the reality that Boromir was dead. Reminded myself that it was the way the story went. There wasn't much I could do about it. Maybe that was true, but I didn't have to like it. Because in the end, he overcame the pull of the Ring. He changed his mind on that subject, and _didn't_ do the infamous running tackle that drove Frodo into the shadow realm or wherever it is the Ring takes you.

Wincing, I nodded. "I didn't want that to happen to him," I muttered. "But... it was like with Gandalf. I couldn't interfere."

"What are you talking about?" Strider asked. When I looked up, he had fixed me with a completely confused look.

"Uh...," I ventured, "isn't he... dead?"

"No," Gimli replied. "He was grievously wounded, it is true. Nearly fell, defending the Hobbits."

"I treated his wounds the best I could, then we struck out in pursuit of the Orcs," Strider continued. "He kept pace with us, in spite of his condition."

"He has a fierce will to live," Legolas chimed in, tearing his eyes from Ûnran's for a moment. Glancing back at the Orc with what I thought was unnecessary snarkiness, he said, "If I am any judge, it would seem his attention was focused upon your fate, Tanith, and such... dedication fueled him. Though he suffered greatly, he would not rest unless forced to do so. He feared for your safety."

Honestly, I was too dumbstruck to immediately pick up on the significance of Legolas's comments. All I could think was, how in the __hell__ could __that__ have happened? I made __one__ smart ass comment. See if I ever do _that_ again.

The worst part was that I didn't know the full extent of damage one little saved life could do. I knew his dad might not go round the bend quite so hard, but what would that mean for Faramir? Or even for Frodo and Sam, who would be meeting the sibling at some point? Without the vision of Boromir's death... hell, without the revelation of his brother going completely nuts over the Ring... I shook my head to clear it. Let's face it, I knew the movie, not the reality. For all I knew, the non-death of Boromir would have zero impact.

Or it could change the outcome of the war.

"So... where is he now?"

"We came across a company of Riders," Strider said. "They were returning to Edoras after..." He glanced over his shoulder, gesturing toward the hill and the smoking mound. "He accompanied them, at my insistance."

Legolas fixed me with an intent stare. "He was not fated to survive, was he?"

Swallowing hard, I shook my head. "Honestly guys, there's no damn reason why _any_ of us should have lived, if you think about it."

Ûnran snorted. "Shouldn't've. Don't make no sense."

Nodding agreement, I shrugged. "So... I think we should... you know... maybe follow Merry and Pippin's tracks, right?"

"Did they not escape with you?" Gimli asked with alarm.

"Um... sort of," I hedged. Crap. "They... found their own way out, and... I met them right around here," I explained, gesturing vaguely. "Uh... I didn't want them to get caught again, so I told them to keep going into the forest."

"Why did you not follow?" Legolas asked suspiciously.

"I... knew you guys were coming," I replied lamely. God, I didn't want to screw crap up again. We had to get moving, go deeper in, because Gandalf wouldn't come looking for _us_, right? "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Waiting on you."

"It is little matter now," Strider sighed. "Tanith is right. I see where the Hobbits have continued on. Follow me." Then he turned and headed off.

"Is __that__ coming with us?" Legolas snapped. He didn't need to point out who the 'that' was.

"He goes where I go," I bit back. To make it abundantly clear where I stood, I grabbed and held Ûnran's hand. Say something about it, Elf; I dare you. Legolas grimaced with disgust as if we'd just stuck our tongues down each other's throats in front of him, and turned away.

Leaning toward Ûnran, I whispered, "That got him. Have to remember that one." Squeezing his hand, I grinned at him, but he seemed too angry about the whole affair to respond with more than a grunt.

Progress was slow as Strider kept his head down looking for any sign of Hobbit feet. Gimli glanced warily around at the trees, as if he expected them to take a swing at him. To my extreme annoyance, Legolas kept watch on Ûnran. Oh, he didn't do it with his _eyes_. Hell no. That would be obvious. Every move he made as we trudged through the thick forest, though, told me he had his... I don't know, __inner____eye__ or some shit trained on the Orc, just waiting for him to step out of line and give the Elf ample justification for murdering him. Ûnran wasn't fooled, either, and growled _constantly_. Even more pronounced than his usual exhalations that sounded like an annoyed lion.

God, this trip was going to suck hard if those two didn't come to some sort of truce. At least Strider had apparently postponed open hostilities until further notice; I had no doubt that the stern father-daughter talk was coming, likely full of long-suffering sighs and patronizing pats on the head. Gimli seemed to be taking his cue from Strider, and kept his opinions to himself for the most part. So I suppose I was queued up for a tag-team chat from the both of them. Couldn't wait for that. What a treat.

Then there was Gandalf. Poor guy leaves the party unchaperoned for a few weeks, and look what happens. Talk about sleeping with the enemy. You know... figuratively speaking.

The tracks led us to a hill with rough steps up the sides. Ûnran and I stayed at the foot under cover of the trees while the rest headed up.

"He's gonna kill me," Ûnran growled under his breath. His eyes never left Legolas.

"Not if I can help it," I said in the most convincingly reassuring tone I could muster. I think I failed on both accounts, because he snorted in disbelief.

"It don't matter," he muttered. "He can do what he wants. Won't fight it. Told yuh I wouldn't."

"Some promises aren't worth keeping," I pointed out. "If Legolas turns on you, I won't blame you at all if you defend yourself. It's what _I_ would do."

He chuckled low, and the sound of it released some tension in me as well. "_You'd_ hit him on the head with a pan and piss yourself. Ain't thinkin' that's what _I_oughta do."

"Try not to be an ass," I hissed with annoyance. "It's not funny."

"Sorry."

Glancing over, I saw that his head was ducked and he was wincing. It occurred to me, finally, that he'd seen me for months, watched how easily I interacted with my friends, and maybe he was trying to be a part of that. And failing miserably sometimes. The social exchanges in Isengard were likely very guarded, if you didn't want to give the wrong signal and end up on the receiving end of some very unpleasant attention. I wondered what kinds of things he and Zûrash talked about, even what they _joked_ about. Whatever it was, he understood _that_ social environment, not necessarily this one.

"It's okay," I said softly, and squeezed his hand again. "I don't mind the... about the pan. That _is_ pretty funny. It's just the other. It's... embarrassing." He glanced at me, and I smiled a little. "Maybe you can help me learn how to use a sword, hm? Since I lost my pan."

He shrugged uncertainly. "If yuh want."

Right about then, the boys on the hill detected movement in the bushes or something, and called a warning down to us. Sighing, I tugged Ûnran along behind. "Come on," I said wearily. "It's show time."

We joined the others and saw that they'd gotten a bead on an old man approaching from the other side of the hill. Okay, not how it happened in the movie, but who gave a crap at this point? I was so glad to see Gandalf, I didn't care what clever disguise he was wearing. But of course, I held it in. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for everyone. Some people like to have their moments of shock and awe. He's an old man, after all. How many opportunities does he have left? So I gave him this one, and just stood quietly by.

On second thought, as they commenced with a long, drawn out conversation that danced completely around the whole subject of Gandalf's Big Reveal, maybe I_should_ have stepped in. I mean, come on. Sure, he was wearing enough layers to keep even the most astute on-looker guessing about his identity, but good god. He wasn't using Peter Frampton's talk box to disguise his voice, for crying out loud. Wake up, people.

Eventually, it dawned on me that, Gandalf or not, he wasn't paying Ûnran any particular attention. One would think that, as racially diverse as our group was, the presence of a flippin' __Orc__ might have tipped the scales into the 'no frickin' way' category.

Unless he already knew all about it. That thought kind of unsettled me a bit.

"I know much of your errand," Gandalf said, as if reading my thoughts. "You seek two young Hobbits, and have followed their steps to this place."

Strider looked ready to stammer questions, but the 'old man' waved him off.

"Yes, I know of Hobbits, as do you. As you can see, they came here nearly two days past, and met someone they did not expect. Does that thought give you comfort?" Without waiting for the swift exchange of confused glances to resolve itself into affirmations or denials, he continued. "Come, let us sit. Your errand is not so urgent as it was."

Turning, he went to sit on a nearby stone. I swear, he allowed his tattered grey cloak to part and show us a flash of white under-pinnings on purpose. Gimli almost had a coronary.

"Saruman!" he cried, yanking his axe free and advancing. "Speak quickly! What have you done with our friends?"

The accusation had a stunning affect on Ûnran. Maybe up to this moment, he was relying entirely on us to direct his aggression or calm with regards to the stranger. All of a sudden, he stiffened in terror and sank to his knees, hyperventilating with swiftly mounting panic. About all I could do at first was stare at him; I'd never seen him come unglued like that before, not even in my dreams of him.

Holding his hands up in a warding gesture, Ûnran whimpered, "No, please, Master, I didn't do nothin'. I swear. Don't take me back there. Do whatever else yuh want, just... not that. __Please__." Then he crumpled, pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead and fisting his matted hair, sobbing like a baby. A very abused, desperately afraid baby.

I looked at Legolas, who was staring in shock at the weeping Orc. He glanced up when he felt my eyes on him.

"Go ahead," I said coldly. "Ask me what I saw going on in Isengard. I dare you." Then I knelt beside Ûnran and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

Well, Ûnran's breakdown kind of took the punch out of Gandalf's dramatic entrance, though Strider still about shit himself when he saw the cloak come off and our trusty wizard revealed in all his 'the White' glory.

"Gandalf!" the Ranger cried, and you could hear weeks of relief in his voice. "Beyond all hope, you return to us in our need!"

"Mithrandir!" Legolas chirped happily, turning away from any chance of indulging sympathetic thoughts for Ûnran.

Stepping over to where Gimli knelt with his head bowed in shame for calling him such a nasty name, Gandalf smiled kindly and rested his hand on the Dwarf's head. "I __am__ Saruman, as he should have been, for I am Gandalf the White now."

Then he turned to us, and I couldn't help it, I looked at him like I had every reason in the world to be thoroughly ashamed of myself. It was worse than getting that look from my dad. Except the wizard wasn't looking at me that way.

"Tanith," he said gently. "And I expect this is Ûnran, correct?"

Startled, I nodded. Ûnran stopped crying for a moment and ground to a halt. He didn't look up, though.

"His presence, and relation to you, are known," the wizard said cryptically. Ah, how I missed that: vague references that made no sense whatsoever. Give us another, please! "Of greater significance now, however, is the role he shall play in the coming weeks."

"Um...," I said hesitantly, standing up and dragging the Orc to his feet as well. "I hope you don't mean he's supposed to... he's not going to _change_ things, is he? Because honestly, __one__ of us screwing it up for everyone is enough, don't you think?" I tried to laugh, but it came out hollow and empty.

Gandalf smiled. "As I told you before, there is little that a single person can do to change the course of things. Shaper or not," he added with a twinkle.

"Yeah, but... Boromir...," I protested, but he cut me off with a wave.

"Of little matter, as we shall see," he insisted. "Or I should say, his survival will not adversely affect the outcome of the war. He will, however, _shape_ it, as _you _will." Nodding toward Ûnran, he said, "As _he_ will also shape it."

"So... no harm, no foul?" I ventured, still not entirely believing him. Gandalf nodded and continued to smile like he knew what was going on way better than any of us. I wondered suddenly just where the hell he went when he died, who he talked to, and were they spying on me? Because having _one_ set of eyes on my private ablutions had embarrassed the hell out of me enough, without learning there was a whole crew sitting back with a bag of Cheesy Poofs, critiquing my ass.

We all sat around on the grass and brought him up to speed on things since Moria. Ûnran finally calmed enough to listen, though he kept a bit of distance from us. I wanted to draw him in, but he had that 'back off' aura around him again, and I wasn't particularly interested in having an argument with him in front of everyone. Maybe he felt a bit humiliated by losing his composure. I could definitely understand that.

"Then is not Saruman a traitor?" Gimli suddenly asked, and I zoned back into the conversation. Ûnran seemed to pick up the statement as well, and his pointed ears pricked at the mention of his master.

"Without a doubt," Gandalf affirmed. "Though Saruman's strength grows, and his role in keeping Rohan from flying to the aid of Gondor has been successful to this point, he has sown doubt in the Dark Lord's mind by endeavoring to capture the Ring for himself. Consider this: had he not sought such power, and sent his minions to the Emyn Muil, he may not have shown his hand quite so soon. Now the Dark Lord knows his own servants were thwarted in returning with the Hobbits they sought, and he knows whose will was behind it."

"Ew," I commented. "He's in for a world of hurt, then, isn't he?"

"Indeed," Gandalf smiled. "And he does not even realize it. He does not know of the quarrel between his servants and the Orcs of Mordor, nor is he aware that any prisoners were taken. He fears the Ring may have been in the hands of his servants, but what then became of it? Was it found by the Riders of Rohan and returned to their king? Does _he_ now wield it in defiance of Isengard? While he frets and worries over this threat, he has forgotten the danger at his very doorstep. He has forgotten Treebeard."

Ah, now we were getting somewhere. I swear, for the first time since this entire horrific and humiliating adventure started, someone mentioned a name I actually knew. Thank frickin' god.

"Who is Treebeard?" Strider asked. "And what has become of Merry and Pippin?"

"Yes," Legolas broke in. "We have traveled a great distance seeking them. While we have come to the end of the chase, it seems, still they are not here. What has become of them?"

"They are with Treebeard and the Ents," Gandalf said simply. "Their coming is as a pair of small stones that set loose an avalanche. A thing is about to happen which has not happened since the Elder Days. The Ents are going to wake up and find that they are strong."

Unconsciously, I reached out and took Ûnran's hand. I didn't need Legolas asking what the hell that meant to _know_ what the hell that meant. Gandalf seemed to notice my worried look.

"It is fortunate, Tanith, that you feel the pull of fate so strongly," he said quietly. "And you understand, perhaps better than any, the consequences of fighting against it. Your _own_ world would suffer, if we do not prevail, for our worlds are one in the same."

I think my eyes flipped way open. "Uh...__no__, they're not," I protested. "There's no written history of this stuff. There aren't any _Elves_. No _Orcs._ No... wizards."

"No written history?" Gandalf said wryly, his bushy eyebrows arched. "Yet you know of the events. You know what is happening, what _will_ happen."

"Yeah, but it's a _story_. Just... a story," I said desperately.

"Many tales have a seed of truth," he replied. "This is no different. To your people, what transpires here is but a tale told to children. Perhaps many ages of Man have passed since this time, but I assure you, we walk the same land now that you and your folk will walk many lifetimes from now."

"No Orcs?" Ûnran asked hesitantly.

Gandalf looked sympathetically at him. "No, I am afraid by Tanith's time, your people will be long gone. Indeed, so shall the Elves, for they will have long since all sailed to the West. Hobbits will likely pass into legend as well, choosing concealment over mingling with the Big Folk as they call Men."

"What of Dwarves?" Gimli asked, eyebrows raised curiously.

"Likewise gone into hiding, likely in their mountain vaults and dwellings," Gandalf said with a sigh. "Now, I believe we ought to be getting on. You must honor your given word, Aragorn, and go to Edoras. War is brewing in Rohan, but worse is the evil that has befallen Théoden."

As we rose, the boys started protesting, wanting to hear Gandalf's story about the Balrog. He told us while we walked, but I shut it out. I really didn't want a reminder of that monster. It's quite possible that the intrusion on my dreams of Ûnran and the carnival atmosphere of Isengard kept nightmares about Balrogs at bay. Now that the thing was back on the radar, who knew what sort of things my brain would conjure? I now knew it hadn't been going round the bend before, but now it had a hell of a juicy set of tortures to incorporate into any _other_ nightmarish settings that came along. The Second Hall of Moria seemed like a ripe field for exploration, and I shuddered, imagining what might come of it.

"You all right?"

Startled, I glanced over at Ûnran. "Yeah. Just... remembering. Did you see it? The Balrog?"

He cringed slightly and nodded. "Aye. Scared the fuck outta me."

"You and me both."


	21. Wishes Just Became Horses

**Wishes Just Became Horses, and You Know What THAT Means**

When we emerged from the forest, I had to face the fact that there would be horses now. Lots of horses. I wouldn't be trotting alongside short people on fat ponies, I'd have to actually climb all the way up into a saddle and... oh god. Gandalf whistled long and sharp, and after a few minutes, a trio of horses came at a run.

For a second, I was just as awed by the beauty of Shadowfax as everyone else (except maybe Ûnran; I suspected he thought of horses as a nice change of pace from deer meat). Then I did a quick count. Three versus six. That meant doubling up, right? Crap. Who but me would ride with Ûnran? Yeah, put the two complete lame-asses on a horse together. That's a good way to travel.

"One moment," Strider said, and looked at the two of us critically. Bless his heart, he didn't come right out and say 'I'll be god damned if I'm letting an Orc sit behind me.' You could see it in his face, though. "Tanith, can you ride?"

"I can ride motorcycles if I have to," I offered. "But... uh... not horses."

"Can't ride nothin', either," Ûnran supplied without prompting. He probably figured they wouldn't bother asking.

"I expected as much," Strider said, then tried to soften his sort of snappish tone. "It would surprise me if your Master employed horses for anything past bearing burdens or supplying his troops with meat."

Ûnran half shrugged but made no other comment.

When the horses got close, however, they stopped short and one of them reared up in a panic. Shadowfax stood rigid with his legs apart and teeth bared, as if preparing to spring in whatever direction was necessary. He very clearly had a 'bring it, Orc-boy' look about him. Gandalf approached the horses with soothing words. I had no idea what the problem was, until I realized Legolas was fixing Ûnran with another of his special looks.

"They fear you," the Elf explained. "They know you are an enemy in this land."

"Didn't do _nothin'_," Ûnran snarled. "Ain't never done _nothin'_. Been trapped in fucking Isengard long as I can remember."

After flinching slightly from Ûnran's choice of words, Legolas smirked. "You bear the scent of your folk, and that is enough. No matter that you have done... _nothin'_." Sighing witheringly, he shook his blond head. "You should become accustomed to this. None in Edoras – or Rohan, for that matter – will forgive you for what has been done in these lands."

"You're being an insufferable prick, Legolas," I snapped. "Let it go."

"Open your eyes, Tanith," he retorted. "He radiates foulness like the sun his kind so despises." Legolas sniffed the air as if to illustrate his point, and wrinkled his nose with disgust. "I question now whether what you saw was truly repellent enough, for any _sane_ person would disdain the company of such a beast."

"_Urgaiat-ta sûr pugh-lab, Golug lobûrz pushdug!_" Ûnran suddenly roared.

I almost crapped. I had no idea he could speak that language. When Gandalf spoke it in Rivendell, everyone sort of looked horrified and cringed. That was _nothing_ compared to the affect a native speaker had on Legolas. His eyes widened with shock at first, then shut tightly with a grimace, as if the words caused him physical pain. Recovery was swift, however, and in a flash, blades were drawn on both sides.

It probably occurred to Legolas a little late that nobody thought to relieve Ûnran of his weapons. He was actually stunned by the broadsword that was pointing at his face. That'll teach you to threaten what you think is an unarmed opponent, you big tool.

"Hey!" I cried from a relatively safe distance. Strider and Gimli were much braver than I was, and physically intervened. I thought it was terribly courageous of Strider to risk Orcish wrath by grabbing Ûnran's arms and standing between him and the enraged Elf. Gimli had to make do with breadth what he lacked in height, likewise grabbing arms to prevent bloodshed.

"Enough!" Gandalf thundered, and I swear the sky turned black for a second. "Legolas, you lower yourself by saying such things. Ûnran, do not use that tongue again, particularly to deliver such vile insults."

"Tell me what the beast said, so I may give proper answer for it!" the Elf hissed angrily.

"I will not repeat it," Gandalf snapped. "I expect better of you, Legolas son of Thranduil. _And_ you, Ûnran, who has witnessed the manner of Men. You would do well to embrace the lessons that were taught, if you will walk among them."

I actually felt really embarrassed on Ûnran's behalf. He bowed his head and wouldn't look at anyone. Jesus, how many times had a dressing down from my dad done the same thing to me?

Unsure what else to do, I reached over and lightly touched his arm. He jerked away from me with a growl and sheathed his weapon.

"I believe Hasufel will bear you now," Gandalf continued sternly. "You will ride with Tanith. I trust she does not object?" He looked expectantly at me.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "No objections." Other than the fact that I had no idea how to steer one of those things. Or keep from falling off. Or make it move in the first place. No problem whatsoever.

Strider had his work cut out for him, not only helping me get into the saddle, but then assisting Ûnran as well. Legolas washed his hands of anything Orc-related, and of course Gimli was short. After several awkward minutes of struggle, we were finally settled in, me sitting stiffly in the saddle with a deathgrip on the reins, and Ûnran hunched against my back, his arms so tight around me I couldn't breathe.

"Loosen up there a bit, dearie," I gasped. He did, but once he was a little less physically attached, I realized he was trembling quite a bit. "Don't worry," I whispered over my shoulder. "One of us is bound to fall off at some point. Might as well do it together, right?"

"Don't like this," he growled quietly under his breath. Even his voice shook. "How far to Edoras?"

"Beats the hell out of me," I replied. "Just hang on and don't look down, I guess." Raising my voice, I called to Gandalf, "So... how do you start the engine on this guy?"

The wizard smiled wryly, then spoke in Shadowfax's ear. The great horse bearing Gandalf and Strider leapt into motion. With a jolt, Hasufel took off after him, nearly losing both his riders. Gimli and Legolas's horse also joined in.

My attention was completely focused on not landing in a heap on the ground, tangled up in saddle and Orc, so for about an hour that's all I could think about. I had never in my life sat on one of these bastards, not even for a kiddie ride at the fair. Hell, my parents hadn't even paid the nickel to buy me a mechanical ride in the grocery store. For some strange reason, the unreasonable fear that the horse's motion would break my hymen consumed me. Honestly, after all these years, the stupid thing probably wasn't even a factor. I'd gotten racked on my brother's bicycle uncountable times, because I was lame as hell on _those_ too, and used tampons for years. What the hell could possibly remain to tear? For me, I guess, it was a rite of passage that I wanted to hold onto as special. God knows why, but I wanted the first time to have at least a tiny spot of blood to prove that yes, I did it, I held out against damn near insurmountable peer pressure, I protected that precious little gal _just for you_, my love. Because I knew you were coming some day. _That_ was _my_ Precious.

Then I realized quite suddenly that Ûnran, pressed so tightly to my backside to keep from falling off, had an erection.

Christ's knickers, now what? The undulating movement of galloping horse beneath us guaranteed that he'd be humping against my ass for miles and miles, removing any possibility that 'this too shall pass.' I also became aware that he was grunting with each step Hasufel took, rather like he _was_ humping me with wild abandon. Glancing back, I noticed he was biting his lower lip and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

Not knowing what else to do, I whispered back to him, "Are you... okay?"

Without opening his eyes, he growled, "Fuckin' balls're killin' me. Back hurts. When's this shit gonna end?"

Ah. So apparently sore balls couldn't keep an Orc down, so to speak. Good to know. I wondered if the Orc I kicked back in the battle was actually taken out of the picture for a while, or if I just pissed him off. I honestly didn't stick around to find out.

"Likely when we've suffered sufficiently," I suggested. "My crotch hurts something fierce, too. And my ass. Good lord, my ass hurts," I moaned pitifully. Somehow, Ûnran found it in him to chuckle.

"Maybe I can rub it for yuh," he offered, and nuzzled my neck right behind the ear. It was so unexpected I jerked away in surprise. I immediately felt bad about that. And a little... I don't know, uneasy. That flutter came back unexpectedly. Like a computer programmer with a slide rule, I just didn't know what the hell to do with it.

Surprisingly, Ûnran wasn't particularly discouraged, possibly because I didn't follow up the flinch with an elbow to the gut. Leaning close again, he rubbed his blunt nose against my neck in about the same spot, then, shockingly, _licked_ my earlobe.

Mary mother of god... I almost slithered right out of the saddle. Going a bit limp against his chest, my head fell back on his shoulder, and not only did he graze my neck with his sharp teeth, he risked everything by sliding his hand up through the torn middle of my tunic to cup my breast.

The next thing I knew, the others were dismounted and gathered around us, checking to make sure we weren't dead or broken beyond repair.

"You kept your seats further than expected," Strider commented as he checked Ûnran's eyes for any sign of concussion. "If you are well enough, we need to press on." The Orc nodded awkwardly and allowed Strider to give him a hand up.

Gandalf helped me stand and brushed me off. "No permanent harm done," he commented. "Though I trust you will employ your elbows should the need once more... arise." His eyes twinkled and he looked like he was trying not to laugh. I nearly fainted. God dammit, was there _anything _Gandalf didn't know about? The wizard met my thoroughly embarrassed look with calm amusement. "The heart oft disregards what the eyes see."

Glancing at Ûnran, I wasn't sure _what_ I was seeing. Which eyes I was seeing _through_. Was I looking at him through Middle Earth eyes, and only seeing a killer, a beast, a monster? Or through Tanith Walker's eyes that only saw Ûnran? The answer was a little scary, and I didn't want to know it just yet. Knowing the answer and facing it, _accepting_ it, were two different things, though.

But for god's sake, I was so completely done in by his touch I _fell off a running horse_. That alone should give me my answer. No one, and I mean _no one_, had ever touched me like that. I usually kept men at a distance, since I hadn't found any who were worthy of the Precious yet. Didn't want to make promises I had no intentions of keeping. The ass-rubbing guy I told Ûnran about... well, that was one of those rare exceptions. And a college party with too much illegally-acquired alcohol. For the record, my inhibitions only broke down enough to get an ass-rub, _while still dressed_. Just so we're clear.

We all got back in the saddles and continued on for several more fun-filled hours. Ûnran kept his fondling to himself this time, but I suspected there'd be a discussion about it when we had a moment alone. He couldn't possibly have missed whatever scent change occurred. Hell, _I_ almost smelled it. He'd likely want to explore that a little further. I wasn't so sure I wanted him to. Or... _not_ wanted him to... dammit...

Eventually, Gandalf allowed us a rest break, and we tumbled off our horse with zero grace and lots of groaning. Strider took charge of tending Hasufel, leaving me to collapse face down like a heap of dirty laundry on the ground and beg for death. As if to throw it in the Elf's face, Ûnran sat down quite close to me.

He remained sitting for a bit, glowering across the little camp at Legolas. I raised my head and glared at the Elf until he looked away. Once he was fairly certain Legolas would mind his own affairs for a bit, Ûnran laid down on his side and spoke quietly to me.

"Yuh liked it," he purred, his voice a low rumble. I turned my head, resting on my folded arms where I lay flat on the ground, and frowned.

"If you ever do that to me again," I growled quietly, "I will thoroughly, totally, and _completely_ kick your ass."

His brow furrowed with real concern. "Didn't hurt yuh... did I?"

"No, not at all," I snapped. "I regularly get trampled by horses and squashed by flying Orcs. It's been so long since the last one, I almost missed it. Thanks for bringing back such wonderful memories."

"Yuh landed on _me_," he pointed out with a grimace. "Didn't feel too good to me, neither."

"Yes... well... don't you dare say I should lose a few pounds," I growled. "And keep your damn hands to yourself next time."

"Couldn't help it," he muttered, looking away. "Want yuh bad. I know what'll happen to yuh if I have yuh, but it don't make me want yuh less."

"Is that _all_ you want?" I asked stiffly. Glancing back at me, he swallowed hard.

"Don't know," he said, starting to panic. "Wanna be... close. Want things I got no name for. Just know I want'em from you. And I know... I ain't gonna live without yuh." His eyes flicked between mine and the ground, and another voice intruded on my thoughts rather rudely.

_Yuh don't even know yuh ain't whole til she's there, then yuh can't... yuh can't live without her._

Oh god. Oh god. He didn't just... no, he was talking about the fact that if I'm not defending him, he's dead. That's what he really meant. Someone please tell me that's what he meant. Because if he meant the other... what the hell was I going to do about _that_?

Even worse, did I _want_ to do anything about it? One way or another?

Pushing the thoughts away, I decided that, for the time being, I'd play stupid. I'd take it at face value and pretend I never heard the Pitmaster talking about his mate. "At least Gandalf's on your side," I pointed out shakily. "So... he'll pull for you if I'm not around. You'll be all right."

"Aye," he said sullenly, and I had to fight not to wince. God yes, that was _exactly_ what he meant. Crap on toast, what was I going to _do_? What did _I_ want, come to think of it? And once I had that figured out, did I want it from _him_?

_Yes_.

Shut up, Floozy.

_You know you do_.

I _said,_ shut it!

_Knocked you right on your ass. Never in recorded history has **that** happened. Go with it._

He's an _Orc_.

_It'll piss off Legolas_.

Not you too, Brat. And what _doesn't_ piss off an Elf, honestly?

_Maybe he'll teach you to talk dirty in Orcish._

And maybe you'll shove it up your ass.

_Just saying_.

* * *

><p>"What are your thoughts, Aragorn?"<p>

For some reason, the gravity of Gandalf's voice pulled me into wakefulness, but I didn't move. Even Ûnran was only pretending to be asleep; I'd heard the way he breathed both awake and asleep quite enough over the past couple of days to know when he was faking it.

Somehow in our sleep, we had drifted toward one another, and my forehead was pressed to his chest. We lay on our sides, face to face, and held on. For a moment, I debated disengaging, if only for appearances' sake. But then the conversation I was hearing might halt, so I kept still.

Strider sighed deeply, and the scent of pipe smoke drifted lazily past me on the breeze.

"It is... difficult. I look upon her as... perhaps... a daughter," he replied, and I actually got a little verklempt, hearing that. "I believed that... only the comfort of knowing what she saw... what she _dreamed_... was a lie, spared her descent into madness."

"Agreed," the wizard said softly. "She has borne witness to deeds we may never have known were taking place. Who among us would think to ask an Orc such things? Yet who better to tell us?"

"There is... something else," the Ranger said cautiously. "The night before we left Lothlórien. I do not know what she saw, but she awoke screaming, and was inconsolable for some time. She vowed vengeance upon Saruman. I confess, I have not asked of it, now that we know she saw the truth."

"Indeed? _Tanith_ swore such an oath?"

"She was utterly distraught."

They were silent for a few minutes, then Gandalf brought it up, like I knew he would. "What say you, though, of this?" I didn't have to have my eyes open or be looking in his direction to know he'd just pointed at us. Likely with his pipestem.

"I confess, I am... repelled," Strider said softly. Coming from him, it was devastating to hear. Like I'd just completely disappointed my real dad. "Pity for these creatures, I can understand. She has a good heart. But to lie next to one? To embrace such a foul beast?" He sighed.

"You see with the eyes of a man who has spent his life killing such beings," Gandalf pointed out. "Look with _her_ eyes. See Ûnran as an _individual_, not as the face of all his people. Then you may understand."

"That is even _more_ difficult," he replied wryly. "Only my trust in her judgment has stayed my hand. And _that_ trust is... fragile at best. I tell myself that surely, if he had abused her, she would not now defend him so fiercely. But the things she saw... what he has done..."

"Against his will," Gandalf remarked pointedly. "That is no small consideration."

"Truly _against_ it?"

I felt Ûnran stiffen and his growling breath increased slightly in volume. I jerked my head forward to bump sharply against his chest, and he quieted.

"We know where you stand, Legolas," Gandalf said impatiently. "Has Tanith not told you the details of her dreams?"

"No, nor do I wish to hear them," the Elf snorted. "You forget he is an _Orc_. Little better than animals wrongfully blessed with the gift of speech. What is done to them is entirely deserved."

"I disagree," Strider said quietly. "I, at least, have been privy to what is endured in Isengard. What has been done to this Orc in particular. I would not say _any_ of it was... deserved."

Thank you, Strider. If I ever get a chance to bake chocolate chip cookies, the first batch has your name on it.

"Nor I," Gandalf agreed, and I chalked up a second batch for him. "He has been abused, assaulted, tortured, and forced to do things he did not wish to do. Perhaps, had he not been _also_ dreaming of Tanith, he would not have been particularly affected by such things. No more than his fellows, in any case. But he _was_ dreaming of her. Seeing her, and more importantly, seeing _us_. The ways we interacted and treated one another. He was gifted with a vision of another way of living, and clearly found his own lacking. Perhaps that made what he endured all the more intolerable. Yet like _all_ of his kind, he was helpless to escape it, until a few days ago, when his band happened to engage the only people who might hear his entreaties, and heed them."

"Gandalf," Strider said quietly, "he was used for breeding."

"Yes, he was," the wizard acknowledged. "Also against his will. Do you not recall Tanith's words on the matter? 'Whipped until he complied.'"

Strider grunted. "I saw the state of his back. It would seem he did not 'comply' as often as one would expect of an Orc."

"When you say... 'breeding'," Legolas began quietly, "what, precisely, are you saying?"

"Bear in mind, Legolas," Gandalf said carefully, "that Ûnran is blameless of the deeds of his Master. Saruman sought specific traits, particularly intelligence and tolerance of the sun, and bred Orcs with Men to attain them. When Elrond and I discussed this in private counsel, we assumed... _hoped_... he managed it through magical means. Through Tanith's eyes, and by extension Ûnran's, we learned that... was not the case."

"And... this Orc... committed such foul deeds."

"Under the watchful eye of Saruman," the wizard insisted sternly. "Do not forget _his_ hand in it. I confess, I did not want to believe such things of my old friend. I wish even now that it could be denied, but the proof of it walks among us. Have you not noted his Man-like qualities? That he has affection for Tanith is also quite clear, and not something I would ever imagine seeing in an Orc of any other making."

"That is...," Legolas growled. "No. Speak not of 'Orcish affections.' There is no such thing. He but awaits an opportunity to slake his lusts, as is the wont of such creatures."

"Did you not hear?" Strider said. "Tanith was alone with him for _two nights_, and he did no worse than apply... Orcish healing crap to her wounds." I had to stifle a chuckle, and by the amusement in Strider's voice, so did he.

"Why _would_ he abuse her when his life hung by a thread?" the Elf insisted. "Better to use her for leverage..."

"By what force was he threatened?" Strider hissed. "They had escaped the Riders' gauntlet, were far from the eyes and ears of any who might defend her from him. Legolas, old friend, your eyes see far less than mine in this."

"I see _Orc_."

"That is what I see, but I also see Ûnran. Perhaps you should look to that as well."

"What say you, Gimli? You have been silent for too long." Legolas said, and I started. What, everyone was awake but me? Oh wait...

I could hear the Dwarf's long inhalation and exhalation, as if he was priming the pump for a lengthy speech. Oh dear. "I confess, I have not heard the full tale of Tanith's dreams, myself. Like you, Legolas, I see Orc, and wish to exact vengeance upon him for all the deeds of his people. But I also hear Gandalf's and Aragorn's wise counsel. And I see with my own eyes an Orc who does not act as I would expect." Then he chuckled. "At least, not toward any but _you_, my friend. You have goaded and prodded, you must admit. Perhaps he would be just as tame with you as with the rest of us if you did not."

"I will not let my guard down with sentimental delusions or wishful thinking," Legolas huffed. "Regardless of _how_ he was made, _what_ he was made _of_, and what veneer of submissiveness he may have affected."

Gandalf sighed wearily. "We will reach no conclusion tonight. If you are all agreeable, I suggest we wake them and move on. We must reach Edoras as quickly as possible."

Both Ûnran and I had to pretend complete ignorance of the entire conversation when Strider nudged us 'awake,' even though some of it pissed us both off. I kicked myself for not springing up and telling them about what happened to Ûnran's offspring. Shift the focus of Legolas's anger to where it _needed_ to be.

Mounting up, I realized that I shouldn't have gotten off the horse in the first place. Everything that hurt like hell when I got off, hurt like all nine circles of hell when I got back on. Ûnran's groaning and growling behind me confirmed he was feeling the pain as well.

A few miles later, I decided that 'horse' stands for Hatefully Obnoxious Rump-killing Seat of Evil. My ass hurt, my thighs hurt, my back hurt, my _crotch_ hurt – just... _all_ of it – my neck hurt, my ribs hurt... I totally understood, for the first time, the full meaning of Indiana Jones's weary 'It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage.' Of course, some of that could have been from the fall we took the day before.

A few more tedious, agonizing hours passed, then Gandalf called another halt. Or maybe Shadowfax declared it. He seemed suddenly very alert. Shading his eyes against the sun's glare, Gandalf gazed ahead.

"What do your keen eyes see, Legolas?" he asked.

Legolas mimicked the wizard's gesture, and looked. "I see a great hall of Men, roofed in gold, or so it seems by the sun's glint."

"You gaze upon Edoras," Gandalf nodded. "And Meduseld is the golden hall where dwells Théoden son of Thengel, King of the Mark of Rohan." Eying each of us, he continued, "Draw no weapon and speak no haughty word. You, Ûnran, must go bound until such time as trust in you is gained. There is evil afoot in Edoras, and we must hasten to the seat of the King."

Unsurprisingly, Ûnran shot a hostile look at Legolas, as if tying him up was the Elf's idea.

"That would be wise," Strider agreed. "Will you consent?" He looked expectantly at the Orc.

"_No_, I don't fucking consent!" Ûnran roared, folding his arms defiantly over his chest. "Let every whiteskin in the place have a go at me with sword and axe? I ain't a prisoner!"

"Tanith, explain...," Gandalf began, but he was cut off by a smooth voice.

"Perhaps you _should_ be," Legolas said in the falsely soothing voice he'd developed over the last twenty-four hours. I felt like gutting him myself. "None would believe for a moment that you are a _tame_ Orc, for such a thing has never been known. It is more than likely that the Men of Rohan will fill you with arrows before we even reach the gates. Even 'disguised' as a prisoner."

Of course, now that he knew he had backup in the form of Strider and Gimli, Legolas didn't even flinch when Ûnran lunged for him again. This time it was the Dwarf that presented an immovable barricade and grabbed arms that would, in another heartbeat, pull out a weapon. Legolas smirked as if the Orc just proved his point for him.

I was so pissed, all I could do was thrust an angry, trembling finger in his face and glare for a couple of seconds.

"Legolas, I believe you have provided our answer," Gandalf mused thoughtfully. "Perhaps we may not take him across the threshhold of Meduseld, but we must at least bring him into Edoras. Even among _us_, he is likely to be slain when we come within bowshot of the walls. So... we must cover him."

"Excuse me, what?" I demanded.

"Explain, Gandalf," Strider said uncertainly.

"Why must he be brought at all?" Legolas cried. "Leave him, let him find his own fortune. I daresay he will cease to be a concern in a matter of days."

"Piss off, Legolas!" I snapped. "Why don't you just leave _Gimli_, huh? Why don't we head over to Isengard and drop him off to fend for himself _there_! What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"What is wrong with _you_?" he barked.

"Nothing a little Elf ass-kicking won't cure!" I retorted.

"Enough of this!" Gandalf roared. "Tanith, give your cloak to Ûnran. Aragorn, your hood. We will ride to the gates and reveal his identity when we can more easily defend him. And _you_, Legolas, will defend him as well. He is not to be harmed." Sighing, he seemed like a weary old man. Turning to Ûnran, who was standing about as passively as he could, under the circumstances, he said, "Though your making is the stuff of nightmares, friend Uruk, you are tempered by it. Not so like a beast that you cannot stand still, even among your enemies."

* * *

><p><strong>Translation:<strong>

_Urgaiat-ta sûr pugh-lab, golug lobûrz pushdug!_ - Stick it up your ass, pansy Elf dung-filth!


	22. Kicking it Up a Notch on the Ew Scale

****Kicking it Up a Notch on the Ew Scale****

My stomach was just gearing up for a prolonged lecture on the importance of regular meals, even in the absence of Hobbits, when we reached the gates of Edoras. Though Ûnran bitched under his breath in what I had to assume was more Orcish, since I didn't understand a word of it, he allowed himself to be bound when we got started again, and was now in front of me on the horse. That allowed me to slide off the back in a graceless heap once we stopped. I swear, he saved up all his manly dismount points for when he had no free hands, there were plenty of potentially pissed off people watching, and it really mattered a huge amount not to look like a buffoon. Making __me__ look ten times more lame. Jerk.

About half a dozen men rose to greet us 'politely' at spearpoint, and Gandalf bandied a few words in their own language. I glanced at Ûnran, standing there with his head bowed humbly, the hood casting a shadow over his already-dark face. At least, that's how he must have wanted it to look; his lips were curled in a snarl that almost made me take a step back. His hands were bound in front, and honestly, only a blind man with his head up his ass would miss the reddish-brown-skinned claws.

"It'll be all right," I whispered to him, trying desperately to believe it myself. His head jerked toward me and back, as if he was trying to see my face but the hood wouldn't let him.

"Ain't gonna be all right," he growled in an undertone. "Leave me in their hands, I'm good as dead."

"Then... I won't," I replied. He snorted his disbelief.

"Who are you that travel openly in the Mark?" one of the guards said, his eyes scanning the rest of us. "You come clad strangely, riding horses very like our own. One of the __Mearas__ as well, or my eyes are deceived. Are you servants or spies of Saruman, or some phantoms of his craft? Speak swiftly!"

"Orc!" another guard suddenly yelled, pointing with alarm at Ûnran. Here we go.

Blades came out in a clatter and swish of steel. Our little group surrounded Ûnran, facing outward with our own swords drawn. Okay, I'd lost mine quite some time ago, couldn't even remember where, so about all I could do was stand by him and __look__ menacing. I supposed I could shake an admonishing finger at them. Maybe that would work.

"Be still!" Gandalf bellowed. Everyone froze. I wondered suddenly how many more of those he had in his little pouch. Dr. Evil had a whole bag of _s___shh__,.

"Your eyes are not deceived, for these are indeed horses of your people," he said gravely.

"They are Hasufel and Arod, lent us by Éomer, the Third Marshall of the Mark two days past," Strider supplied.

"And what of __this__?" the same guard growled, pointing his spear at the Orc. Not easily distracted from the point of contention, these people.

"He is an Orc, as you can see," Gandalf confirmed, and pulled the hood off Ûnran's head. Several of the men gasped; they'd probably never seen one up close, or if they had, not for more than a few seconds, and certainly not looking so... Well, he wasn't __happy__, not by a long shot, but he wasn't roaring a battle cry or biting the heads off bats or whatever it is they do. "He is under my protection."

"Who are __you__, then?" the first guard barked. I could feel the tensions rising and cringed back a step... right into Ûnran. The fact that I bumped up against him, and _didn't_ immediately leap away in disgust, caused a hell of a stir. "Explain yourselves!" the guard roared to be heard over the sudden clamor of men's voices and attempts to advance through the pathetically feeble defensive line surrounding the Orc.

It occurred to me that maybe a softer voice was required here, and I left Ûnran's side to stand next to Gandalf. "Can I, um... say something?" I asked timidly. Really, spears in my face. It was a miracle I didn't piss down my leg. I'd almost forgotten how much fun that was.

"Lady," the guard said gruffly, nodding to let me know I now had possession of the talking stick or whatever.

"This," I said, gesturing behind me, "is Ûnran. He's... granted, he's an Orc. He's also one of _Saruman's_ Orcs. Um... he wants to... petition the King for... sanctuary."

You could have heard a pin drop. Wasn't that the right word? Oh damn, that was from __Logan's Run__. "I mean asylum. That's it. Asylum."

"I do not know 'asylum'," the guard replied sternly. "Sanctuary, I understand, but not with regards to _Orcs_. What is also unclear is your... ease... with this beast. Is she bewitched?" he asked, turning to Strider.

"Nay," the Ranger said, shaking his head. "I would say she sees more truly than any of us. This... beast, as you call him, has important information we need to deliver to your King. Will you allow us entry, or shall we expect Théoden King to come to _us_?"

I had to give it to him. This, plus charging across the bridge at a Balrog, earned Strider the Biggest Balls in the Fellowship award. Yeah, I think I'd vote for him as King. Absolutely.

"One of our number has already come to your city," Gandalf interjected before chests could swell and hands could do more than grasp sword hilts. "Boromir son of Denethor, of Mundburg in Gondor. Have you seen him?"

"Aye," another guard answered with a nod. "He has been with the healers in Meduseld since he arrived. Grievous were his wounds, and weary beyond reckoning was he, yet I have not heard of his death. He may be there still."

"Thank you," Strider said gratefully. "Forgive my harsh words, but we have traveled far, and our errand is urgent. The Orc will give no trouble. He is bound, as you see, and proved himself in our eyes at least. _Hers_ in particular." He nodded significantly at me, and the Rohirrim men all exchanged bewildered looks. Yeah, that's right. I trust an Orc. Suck it.

The guard appeared to debate the issue in his mind for several minutes, and I chafed. Should I say something witty, or keep my mouth shut? Flash my tits? Burst into song? What was required here?

"It would be my head if I allowed an Orc free passage beyond this gate," the lead guard finally said. "We will take... this... into our hands while you treat with the King."

"Abso-fucking-lutely not!" I blurted, then hoped the ground would suck me into it when every head turned in my direction. Oops. "I mean... um... that... is... not satisfactory." Honestly, how the hell __did __you talk to these people?

Ûnran, curse his ass, chuckled.

Strider shot us both annoyed looks, and told the guard, "In truth, Ûnran is not a prisoner. He is bound in trust to ease your fears only. We will not abandon him to your mercy, no matter the promises you make regarding his safety."

"I made no such promise," the guard said evenly. "Nor _shall_ I. If you are bent on presenting such things to my Lord, you do so at your peril. I will not allow unguarded entry, regardless of the promise _you_ make of his proof." Turning, he motioned for four of his men to accompany us, then he led the way through the gates.

As we walked up the winding path and flight after friggin' flight of stairs between more houses than I ever imagined Jackson's Edoras could possibly hold (which is probably why his version _didn't_), I held on to Ûnran's elbow. This __sucked___._ He kept his head down, didn't look to right or left, but winced with every word shot in his direction. At least they were in a foreign language we didn't understand, but tone conveys a hell of a lot. People were coming out of the houses, running ahead to spread the warning that an _Orc_ had been brought to town. If we weren't still clustered around him so watchfully – even Legolas, though you could tell he'd duck at the first thrown rock – I was pretty sure the mob would drag him out and beat the crap out of him. The anger and hatred was like a fog in the city, thick enough to cut with a knife.

I almost peed my pants _again_. Just from the tension and fear their strong emotions were generating. I could only imagine what Ûnran was feeling.

When we mounted the steps to Meduseld, more fun awaited us. The doorwardens had been warned ahead of time and were __not__ happy about what just blew into their lives.

"Halt," one of them said, stepping forward and holding up his mailed hand. "I am Háma, Doorward of Théoden," he said stiffly. "You must lay aside your weapons before entering the presence of the King. __And__ your vile burden." Well, he certainly didn't need to tell us what __that__was. Maybe he didn't turn us away, but he wasn't about to be nice either. No Walmart-style greeting for us, it looked like.

To his credit, Ûnran didn't so much as grumble, as if he'd had the entire walk to recognize his place in Rohan society and understand where he stood. I got a healthy dose of it myself, and suddenly felt very cruel for dragging him in here in the first place. When you've been in a place that tears you down to the nub, it doesn't help your recovery to go somewhere you're not wanted.

"Then I'm staying too," I said firmly, stepping closer to Ûnran. "I'm sure you guys can handle things on your own."

"This we will do," Strider said, unbuckling his sword belt. "Take particular care of these," he added, gesturing to the weapons everyone was handing over. "Precious gifts are some, and treasured heirlooms, others." He hesitated for a few moments before handing over his own sword. "Harm not one hair of the Lady," he warned.

Háma looked startled, and a little offended. "Of a certain, we will not!"

"Mark you that she considers the Orc a friend," he said gravely. "A threat to him is one to her."

The Doorward darted a look between Strider and I, then fixed a long look at Ûnran. "Understood."

Opening the doors, he let the others in. I had to laugh; he was so stunned by the possibility of friendship between a woman and an Orc, he let Gandalf walk right past him with his staff. No 'feeble old man's walking stick' argument required.

I kind of wanted the chance to see Wormtongue get his ass kicked, but maybe I'd catch him on the rebound coming out the door. Slowly, though, the memory came back as Ûnran and I sat on the top step.

Wormtongue. If Orcs like Zûrash, who'd never set foot in the breeding pits, knew that little pustule was hanging out down there, how widely known __was__ it? Did __everyone__ in that tower snicker about it? Good god. What if Ûnran recognized him, and unwittingly 'outted' him? The guy had a hair trigger about crap that went on down there. A reminder like Wormtongue might set him off like a bomb.

"Ûnran," I said quietly, checking over my shoulder. Háma and his buddy were still busily securing the weapons, wrapping them in cloths and laying them out carefully. "You'll have to keep your mouth shut."

"Keepin' it shut," he growled.

"No, I mean... even if you... recognize someone," I said.

His lip curled. "Wormtongue's here, ain't he?"

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "He's likely to get chucked out the door right past us, so __please__ don't make a scene, okay? He's got... stuff to do. He has to survive the day in order to do it. __Very__ important stuff."

He didn't answer, just sat there, staring down the stairs, maybe not seeing them. I could feel the rising tension, almost see the gears grinding in his head. Oh shit. I wondered what I __hadn't__ seen. What fresh hell was going to come out of his mouth when that man tumbled down the stairs?

"_Please_, Ûnran," I begged. "He sucks, he's a bastard, he... god, I could go on and on, but if you tell __anyone__ what you saw him doing in those pits, they'll kill him, and that will... Let's just say it'll screw up something really, really big that absolutely __has__ to happen."

"Ain't promisin' _nothin'_," he snarled, and half turned away from me. Dammit, why did he do that? If he didn't like what anyone had to say, he shut them out. It was like reasoning with a toddler.

"I would hear the tale," Háma suddenly said as he walked over to us, "of how a woman of apparently high quality came to befriend... this." His arms were kind of belligerently crossed over his chest, so he just jerked his chin at Ûnran.

He was a fairly tall man, I noted. On the order of Boromir kind of tall, really. To avoid getting a stiff neck, I rose to stand on the top step with him. Ûnran lurched to his feet as well. Probably a guy thing, since he was something like six or so inches shorter as it was.

"Well, that's an interesting story," I began, and faltered. How the hell could I explain something like this to a total n00b like this guy? And honestly, how much of it was his business? Thinking fast, I derailed my original spiel and went for something clever and imaginative.

Basically, I lied. But it was for a good reason. A _really_ good reason.

"Um... well... it's like this," I went on. "Me and the gang you met were... sort of... attacked by a bunch of Orcs."

"Including this one," Háma suggested coldly, once more nodding at Ûnran in a totally jerkish way.

"Well, yeah," I conceded with a shrug. "Him too." I glanced apologetically at Ûnran, but he wasn't looking at me. He was turned slightly away and was wincing, like he knew what I was going to say and he didn't want to hear it, but he had nowhere he could go to _not_ hear it. Taking a deep breath, I continued, "A couple of my friends were captured, and... so was I."

Now the door warden's eyes grew large and concerned. "You were taken? By Orcs of Isengard?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "And I want you to know something. _He_," I said, pointing deliberately at Ûnran, "decided to help me. He took care of me. He made sure nobody hurt me. Then he helped me escape."

Háma stared at me for several moments. I almost thought he'd thrown a rod or blown a seal. He even blinked a few times, like the system froze for a minute and he was having trouble finding the Ctrl-Alt-Del keys. "How is that possible?" he finally asked incredulously.

"He's a good person," I said firmly. "That's how."

"Why is he _here_?"

I found myself smiling a little ironically. "How long do you think you can last, being a good person in Isengard?" Glancing over, my eyes met Ûnran's; he looked profoundly relieved. A lot less pissed than he was a minute ago when we were talking about Wormtongue, that's for sure.

Turning back to Háma, I told him, "He made a choice, and helped me escape. In a way, I helped _him_ escape, too." Giving the door warden a significant look, I added, "He had my back among his people, so I've got his among mine. Just so you and I understand each other."

Háma lowered his arms and put his hands on his waist. Tilting his head, he regarded Ûnran curiously. I confess, I held my breath: it's not that I told the world's biggest whopper or anything, but the main reason why Ûnran knew I might be able to help him was kind of left out.

"I have not stood so near an Orc," Háma said slowly, almost uncertainly, "without killing it." He kept moving his head from side to side, examining Ûnran's face. Probably fascinated by the fact that the Uruk's expression shifted from calm and relaxed to 'get out my fuckin' face' the longer he stared at him. About when Ûnran's lips began to curl back and expose his teeth, I stepped in.

"Maybe you oughta... step back a touch, don't you think?" I gently suggested, pulling on Háma's elbow. He reluctantly obliged me. Ûnran did, after all, have his hands bound in the front. Maybe he couldn't strangle some provocative asshat invading his personal space, but he sure could claw him up a bunch.

"Are they like Men in any way?" the door warden probed, and I felt like screaming, _He's right there!_ Jesus, stop talking about him like he's not in the room.

Huffing impatiently, I growled, "Yeah, a lot. Some are, like, _huge_ assholes who don't know when to shut their god damn mouths." Unsurprisingly, Háma shot me what must have been the most personally offended look on record in Rohan. I just arched an eyebrow and pursed my lips in that way that says, 'If the shoe fits, dumbass.'

"I am merely curious," he snapped.

"Then _ask him_," I retorted. "Don't treat him like an animal. He _does_ understand you."

I'm sure Háma couldn't decide which one of us was the bigger blight on his king's doorstep, but I'll give him this: he actually tried to be civil after that. Maybe being a soldier himself, the first thing that popped into his head was along a military vein.

"What is your rank?" he asked. Ûnran narrowed his eyes suspiciously and glanced at me. I was no help; I just shrugged and nodded. Sure, and tell him your serial number while you're at it. Isn't that how it's supposed to go when the enemy interrogates you? Something like that.

"Pizurk," he grunted in a low voice.

"I do not know that word," the door warden said. "What does it mean?"

"Lowest rank," Ûnran replied shortly.

"Such as a private, or foot soldier," Háma suggested, and the Uruk shrugged. Looking over Ûnran, the Rohirrim man probed further, "How is your rank signified?" When Ûnran gave him a confused look, he elaborated, "How may others know your rank? Do you wear some sort of emblem? On your uniform?"

"Got no uniform," Ûnran muttered. "Just this shit." He moved his arms a little, indicating the ragged clothing he wore. "Ranks is carved on us."

Háma had another of those 'blue screen of death' moments and blinked stupidly at the Uruk. "Carved?"

"Aye," he nodded, and I swear, Ûnran gave the door warden a little smug smile. Sort of like, 'Yeah, you pussies wear jewelry; we get tattoos. Who's the tough guy now?'

"Do I dare ask _where_ such a mark is set?"

"On the chest," Ûnran replied. He even puffed his own out a little.

"I should like to see this mark," Háma said, and alarm bells started going off in my head.

"I don't think...," I began, but I was cut off.

"Untie me, and I'll show yuh," Ûnran sneered, holding his bound wrists up expectantly.

Chuckling, Háma shook his head. He even waggled his finger, as if he'd caught Ûnran trying to fool him. Which he was probably doing, let's be honest. "That will not be necessary." Then he stepped up and reached for the laces on Ûnran's tunic.

Ûnran's snark took a runner the minute it became clear the Rohirrim was entering his personal space. He took a step back and growled a warning, which thankfully stopped Háma in his tracks.

Not to be deterred, the door warden gestured to me. "He seems to trust you. Open his shirt and show me this mark."

"Can't you just... I don't know, take his word for it and stop being a jerk?" I suggested.

"Show me," the man snarled. I glanced helplessly at Ûnran, and he just shrugged and lowered his hands.

Stepping up to him, I said quietly as I untied the laces, "Sorry about this. I don't know what else to do, though. We can't piss them off."

"Least he ain't wantin' to see what __you__ got in your shirt," he replied under his breath. A surprised snicker tried to get out of my mouth, and our eyes met for a moment. A bit of his old humor was flickering in his yellow eyes, and the corners of his mouth were twitching slightly, like when he was trying not to laugh.

As I loosened the ties and began spreading his shirt open, he purred quietly, and a slightly broader smile sneaked across his face. "Try not to enjoy this too much," I admonished in an undertone.

"Don't stop there," he whispered.

"Smart ass."

"Show yuh that, too," Ûnran suggested with an amused snort. "If yuh like."

"Shut __up__," I snapped, glancing back at the doorward. Thank god he couldn't hear what we were saying, though only just. His confused expression showed he could hear murmuring, but couldn't make out what was being said. Then I looked at the center of Ûnran's chest.

I remembered when the brand was applied. It was one of those scented dreams, and let me tell you, burning Orc is __not__ like steak searing on the grill. It was a simple motif; basically, just a solid, round disk with some squiggly lines on either side that apparently meant the time and place of birth. Since then, though, the Pitmaster must have put a few more on, because now his chest had several scars, and not just those made by brands. Knives might have been involved in some.

Then there was his chest. Up close and personal, I could see more clearly than ever before: he had no body hair. I was so used to seeing men from my own world looking like giant monkeys that to see what amounted to a man... sort of... completely hairless except for the massive load of it on his head. Weird. And his skin was... well, rough-looking. Like he'd never even __heard__ of moisturizing body lotion, let alone ever put it on.

Forcing myself to step back with at least a half-hearted show of indifference, I gestured for Háma to take a gander.

The man looked suitably impressed. Maybe not a 'gotta get me some of _those_' sort of impressed, but more like in a 'fuck, that must have hurt like a bitch' way.

"What does all this mean?"

Looking down at himself, Ûnran awkwardly pointed to each mark the best he could with his hands bound at the wrist. "That's my rank: Pizurk. Born on a new moon, 's'what that'un is. What my name means, too. This is for pit five. First one out, here. These lines... squad three. This here... Murûk's mark. All us in his barracks got it."

"Ew," I grimaced. "Is that the one that was really big, like _huge_? Was that Murûk?"

"Aye," Ûnran nodded, wincing.

"A commander of some sort?" Háma asked.

Hmph, more like an asshole of some sort. Granted, I only saw the bastard once, but that was plenty enough.

"Aye," he acknowledged, but didn't seem inclined to elaborate. I couldn't really blame him. Still, it was sort of encouraging to see Háma seeming to warm to him, however slowly. He didn't look quite so... disgusted, anyway.

"What of this?" he asked, pointing to a long stripe across Ûnran's ribs just below his pects.

Ûnran's entire demeanor changed. He jerked aside, struggling to close his shirt. I swooped in to the rescue, and relaced it.

"Whip?" I asked quietly. He just growled under his breath, his head turned to the side. Now, you know I had to shelve that for later inquiry. You don't just throw a bone like that and expect someone like me to breeze past without asking.

"Why did you turn traitor against your own kind?" Háma asked, tilting his head and scrutinizing Ûnran in a provocative way.

Curling his lip in a snarl, Ûnran growled another warning. Pretty much the universal 'oh no you didn't just go there' that I sincerely hoped Háma would pick up on. No dice.

"Is such a thing common?" he pressed.

"Here's an idea," I said loudly, clapping my hands like an elementary school teacher trying to regain control of an unruly class. "Why don't we..."

As if my need for a save was felt like a disturbance in the Force, the doors to the Golden Hall suddenly opened wide behind us.

"Come, Théoden," Gandalf said as he guided the King out onto the porch. "Breathe the free air and look once more upon the land of your fathers."

Gripping Ûnran's arm firmly, I shot him a warning look, which he snarled at. Great. Now he was pissy again, which meant any promise he _might_ have made was shot completely to hell. While I contemplated several different damage control options, the rest of the gang came out, and I tensed.

Hmmm... no sniveling little rat bastard. Where'd he go? Did Gandalf wipe up the floor with him or something? Sighing and rolling my eyes, I realized that, once again, Jackson totally fucking lied to me.

"I have endured dark dreams of late," Théoden said, turning toward us. "None so dark as what stands before me upon the threshold of my own Hall. You swore there was purpose in bringing so foul a beast within the walls of Edoras. Pray you tell it now, Gandalf Greyhame."

"First, I bid you send for Éomer," Gandalf countered. "He stands as prisoner on Gríma's orders, does he not?"

"That he does, for daring to threaten my counselor's life..."

"A man may love his King yet not love his King's advisor, or his advice."

"Very well," the King conceded. "Háma, you allowed the wizard to enter my hall with his staff. For that show of poor judgment, you shall run this errand. Go, and fetch Éomer hither."

"Yes, my King," the man replied, slightly surprised. Saluting, he turned and ran down the steps.

One thing you had to hand to Théoden, he was a courteous man. He'd been virtually enslaved by Saruman for who knew how long, just got woken out of it to find an Orc on his doorstep, and he still had the gallantry to greet me warmly and kiss the back of my hand with a bow.

I blushed a little, I confess. Ûnran growled a bit, and I nudged his arm to shut him up.

Strider came over and looked us both over. "All was well?"

"Yeah," I said with a shrug. "Everybody got naked and compared scars. We had a fabulous time. How'd it go inside?"

"Successfully, as you can see," he replied, gesturing to where the King was making small talk with Gandalf and the others while we waited on Éomer. It was a testament to how long Strider had been dealing with me that he didn't even flinch at the idea, probably assuming it was a joke anyway.

"Was...uh... Wormtongue there?" I asked. I decided this was just too damn important to use innuendo about. There was no way Jackson would ignore or __utterly__misrepresent Saruman's death at Wormtongue's hands. So now I had to admit that, even though the duty was repellent in the extreme, and if we had any other choice, I'd take it, but the bastard had to get out of Edoras on a horse, not a meat wagon.

"He was," Strider replied gravely. "His foul whispers in the King's ear have been silenced at last."

"So... he's dead?"

"No," he said, startled. "Certainly not. I daresay the King will have him brought out soon enough."

Crap. I glanced at Ûnran, and he was just __seething___._ Couldn't this day just end? Where the hell were Jackson's editors with their 'fade to black' controls, or dissolves, or whatever?

Once Éomer arrived, I stood there chafing the whole time, wondering when the explosion was coming.

"You say he was among those who traveled across our lands? We slew all; how came he to survive?" Éomer asked once he'd done a solemn sword exchange with Théoden. All eyes were turned on Ûnran, who snarled but said nothing. It didn't look like anyone was going to step up and rescue him, so I cleared my throat, catching everyone's attention.

"Well, you see, he... escaped," I said.

"Ran like a coward, more like," the Third Marshall sneered.

"No, he didn't," I replied loudly, gripping Ûnran's arm tighter. He nearly blew a gasket at the accusation. "As a matter of fact... he helped __me__ escape."

"You?" Éomer said with surprise, then his eyes widened. "You were their captive?"

Yes, folks, he __can__ be taught. I nodded. "They attacked us at the river... uh... Anduin?" I gave Strider a questioning look, and he nodded. "Um... one of them – not _him –_ knocked me out and brought me along when they took our Hobbit friends. Ûnran recognized me, so he did everything he could to protect me from the rest of them."

"__Recognized__ you?" Théoden hissed incredulously. "Explain this!"

Oops.

"Somehow a bond was formed between them," Gandalf supplied, apparently ignoring my frantic gestures. It'd just thought up a really good – okay, halfway decent – short version that wouldn't freak people out, and he was determined to freak them out anyway. Wizards – they think they know everything. "They have seen one another in dreams for some while. This is important, Théoden, so listen well: this Orc, a servant of Saruman, has been privy to our counsels for several months. He has heard __all__ of our plans, and knows our aims. As Tanith may attest, he was grievously abused in Isengard, and providing his Master with such knowledge might have eased his suffering. Yet he told no one of it."

Well, knees up Mother Brown, in for a penny, in for a pound. "And when he realized what he saw was true," I chimed in, "he __still__ didn't tell anyone. He protected me. Then he helped me escape," I repeated, in case they forgot.

"'Protected,'" Éomer sneered. "Such a thing is unlikely." His eyes scanned me, noting the torn places on my shirt. "You but choose to spare your own dignity by telling falsehoods."

I was too shocked to immediately reply with anything more than incoherent huffing and sputtering, but apparently Ûnran was so close to flipping out, he didn't have to rev the engine much to get started.

"Nobody fucking __touched__ her!" he bellowed. "I killed __five__ who tried! Five of my own kind, you fucking __pushdug__! Cause it ain't right, it ain't oughta be done, it would _kill_ her inside!" Ûnran visibly yanked back on his own reins and toned it down to a smolder. "Not Tanith. Don't wanna see her done like that."

His outburst had the magical effect of unsheathing every sword on the porch. A few lowered as Ûnran wound down, and the faces all around us were a mix of shock and confusion. Taking a deep breath, I said, "So basically, no, I'm not lying, and yes, he protected me. Then, I'd like to point out, we waited for _these_ guys for almost a day and a half. Alone. Just the two of us. And he _continued_ to not do a damn thing to hurt me. Just for the record. In case you were curious."

"Yet he is bound now," Éomer said, and I could tell he was grasping at straws at this point.

"Just so you guys would let him through the gates," I pointed out, crossing my arms over my chest. "He still had his weapons before we got here. He's no threat."

"I would not say that," Legolas said, and I nearly leaped across the porch to strangle him. "He clearly has a vile temper and little control over it. He and I have nearly come to blows..."

"Because you were __baiting__ him!" I snapped.

"I believe I have heard enough," Théoden said, and even though he didn't raise his voice much, everyone shut the hell up and started hanging on every word. "What knowledge does this Orc bear that you wished me to hear, Gandalf?"

"It is not so much his words, as his nature," Gandalf replied. "If you look closely at him, you will see that he is not like the Orcs of the Black Land. Saruman has rediscovered an ancient method of Orc breeding that produces strong, intelligent, fierce, and loyal servants, and though they are clearly Orcish, they do not fear or cringe beneath the sun. It is mid-morn, yet he stands tall and unaffected. I daresay when the sun reaches its zenith, he will bask in its warm rays as any Man would."

"What are you saying, Gandalf?" the King asked cautiously. You could see the anger and horror sitting there just offstage, waiting for the cue to make their dramatic entrance.

"They are bred from Men," the wizard said quietly. "Or more specifically, __women___._ Stolen from your own lands."

Everything happened at once. All the lowered swords leaped up again. Éomer snarled a curse or something in his own language and advanced on Ûnran, who just cringed with his eyes shut, expecting the final sword thrust at any moment. Since I was standing next to him, I was pretty much caught in the middle. Somehow, though, this was way different from Legolas and Ûnran bumping chests. I couldn't just abandon him in the thick of things, not that I really had a choice at the moment. Pressing my body against his, I shoved him back against the wall, keeping my eyes on everyone.

"Hold!" Gandalf roared, accompanying his voice with a crash of thunder to make damn sure it was noticed. God, I hoped that bag of __sshh__ never ran out.

"He is not here to answer for the deeds of his Master!" the wizard shouted angrily. "Lower your swords and step back. Now I ask you, Théoden King, call forth your counselor. Bring Gríma before him. Let Ûnran bear witness to the treachery of your counsellor, and speak of the many times he saw Gríma within the walls of Isengard, conspiring with Saruman against your people."

I was stunned into speechlessness. Holy mother of god. Someone just turned on the fan, and Gandalf had a handful of shit ready to fling. I shook my head vigorously, but couldn't find words. I realized that I should have told Gandalf just __where__ in Isengard Ûnran saw Wormtongue. Damned if he didn't pay even less attention to my _more_ frantic waving and shushing gestures this time as well.

When Háma and another guard brought him out on the porch, Wormtongue cringed in the light. But I knew that cloak, even though I'd only seen it once. As an aside, he actually bore a passing resemblance to the smarmy slimeball guy in the movie, now that I could see him more clearly.

Oh man, he looked exactly like the kind of guy who'd jack off to monster rape, performed live on stage.

I tried to block Ûnran's view, really I did, but he was a bit taller than me, a lot stronger, and fueled by an incredible rage. As soon as he saw Wormtongue, he went medieval.

At first, Strider and I were able to restrain the Orc, giving Wormtongue the opportunity to see him and look appropriately shocked. He didn't seem to recognize Ûnran, which I suppose was understandable. He wasn't looking at their faces, after all.

"What is __that__ doing here?" he sniveled.

That did it. Now Gimli and Háma had to jump in. Frustrated by our efforts, Ûnran's growling and snarling turned into roaring, then into words. He didn't spew Orcish for this, oh hell no. It was clear he wanted us all to know Wormtongue's dirty little secret. But he didn't say what I _thought_ he'd say.

"Yuh fuckin' __pushdug__ filth!" he bellowed, straining against us. "Yuh killed'er! She wasn't dead! Yuh fuckin' __killed'__er!" His voice broke and suddenly Ûnran slithered to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. The four of us holding him sort of awkwardly stepped back.

Gandalf and Théoden wore twin expressions of complete shock. Éomer looked to be at a loss for words, even snarky ones.

You know, this is exactly the sort of thing I had longed for ever since I saw him lose it the first time. I couldn't take away the horrible memories, I couldn't make everything in his life better, but I could give him this. And I didn't care who was watching. Kneeling in front of him, I pulled him close and gave him my shoulder. Here you go, buddy. Let it out. I'm here for you.

If his hands had been free, he might have crushed me in his grip, but it seemed just the one-sided hug was comforting enough to draw him down to some level of control.

"My tiny one," he said shakily in a low voice that still seemed to carry across the silent porch. "Master... it didn't kill her right then. _That_ fuckin' __pushdug__ came and... he _kicked'er_... across the fuckin' floor. She cried for a second... cried... and he laughed..." Then he was gone again, and I went with him.


	23. Nuke the Tower from Orbit

**Nuke the Tower from Orbit: It's the Only Way to be Sure**

"Get that festering pile of shit out of here," I hissed through clenched teeth. I didn't even turn around, didn't look over the shoulder Ûnran wasn't soaking at the moment. My mind had gone completely numb, but there was enough still operating that if I looked at Wormtongue, if I saw his smirking face, or even a bewildered look, I'd kill him. I didn't know how, but I'd manage it somehow.

What _did_ come to mind was post-Civil War southern United States. Lynchings and such. Trials that were a mockery of justice if they even bothered with them, allowing smug white men to walk free because 'it was just a black kid.' It filled me with associative shame to realize that if these people knew what happened, they'd feel the same way. _So what? It's just an Orc._

Knowing shit before it happened was a hell of a curse, too. I never imagined I'd come to that conclusion. Now I had no choice. That piece of crap had to kill Saruman. If I didn't know that much, I'd let Ûnran loose. Let him have his way.

Of course, a dim part of my brain reminded me that, justified or not, Ûnran wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell. Even with Wormtongue's betrayal sitting uncomfortably on everyone's mind, he was still one of _them_. They'd likely defend him against a threat, when push came to shove.

"I know you won't forgive me for this," I whispered in Ûnran's ear, "but I'm _so_ sorry." I felt no acknowledgement of my words from him, though he seemed to be winding down. Running out of air, possibly. The impression I got from the continued silence behind me was that Orcs weren't criers. At least not as far as _these_ people were concerned. I was seriously in need of a nose blow at the moment myself. How much could one person take? Really? I just watched it; he _lived_ it.

"I _mean_ it," I barked harshly, my voice starting to crack again. "If I turn around and he's still there, I will seriously rip him apart. Understand?"

There was some awkward scraping, some muttered words. I didn't pay much attention. My focus was on Ûnran, and every twitch of his body. After a moment, Strider dropped to one knee beside us, his confused gaze fixed on the Orc. He shook his head.

"I never knew they could..."

"Well, they _can_," I snapped. "Has the porch been cleared off yet?"

"Nearly." He glanced back. "He'll be gone soon." He spoke quietly, as if too loud a word would spook the Orc. "Is this... what you saw in Lórien?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I woke up too soon. Missed that part."

"Who...?"

"Not now," I said stiffly. "Wait until... until he's gone. He plays a part, Strider. Much as I want to... he has to do what he has to do."

"Let us go in," Théoden said. "You have traveled far with little rest. The courtesy of my hall would be lessened if I did not offer you food and drink, and comfort for the night."

"Nay, we must ride as quick as we may westward," Strider said, rising. "There is no time for the weary to rest. Your men must hasten to meet the threat of Isengard, and we will ride with them."

"All of us?" I asked, looking up at him. The Ranger must have seen the Brat revving her engine, because he swallowed a little uncomfortably.

"It would be wise if you accompanied Théoden's folk to the mountain refuge," he said cautiously.

"I think we both know what happened _last_ time you left me behind," I growled. "This time, it's personal, Strider. You _damn_ well better not do it again."

"Are you so eager to slay Orcs, Tanith?" Legolas smirked. "If that is the case, take my knife. At such close quarters, even _you_ could not possibly miss."

I've read things where people claim not to remember something violent they supposedly did, that they suffered a blackout or lost track of what they were doing for a few seconds. I think that's what happened now. I had a vague recollection of leaping to my feet, then the next thing I knew, I was on top of Legolas, diligently rearranging his face so millions of fangirls the world over wouldn't recognize him when I finished the job. Yeah, see how hot he looks with his nose in the middle of his forehead, ladies. I'll dye his skin green and you won't be able to distinguish him from those scary little shits in Moria.

Gimli, ever Legolas's defender, it seemed, quickly grabbed me around the waist and hauled me up and off.

"Stick it up your ass, Legolas! _Hard_ up your ass!" I bellowed.

"Enough!" Gandalf roared.

Things sort of petered out after that, except for me glaring daggers at Legolas and him gingerly picking himself up off the floor. Gimli wouldn't let me go until he was sure I was done.

When coherent thought returned, I saw that Strider must have helped Ûnran stand, but he leaned against the wall looking all kinds of defeated. Like he no longer really cared what anyone did to him now. Taking a deep breath, I slowly approached him, and touched his arm. He jerked away from me and growled.

That hurt. It really did. I couldn't believe how much it hurt.

"We will ride, then. Éomer, Háma, see to the heralds. Call forth the Eorlingas, all who live nigh and are old enough to carry weapon or sit a horse. Bid them be ready at the gates by the second hour after the noon," Théoden ordered. The appointed rousters took off down the stairs like a shot.

"As for the rest of you," he continued, "food shall be laid on the board beside me, for you all."

I didn't even trouble myself to look hopeful. I couldn't imagine he counted Ûnran among the 'you all.' And if Ûnran wasn't eating, neither was I.

"Will you accept the Orc within your Hall?" Gandalf asked. "I do not believe Tanith will be parted from him."

Théoden seemed to think deeply about it, which surprised me. I would have expected an immediate 'hell no' out of him.

"I confess, the spirits of my fathers would likely rise up in outrage were I to do so," he said carefully. "But my eyes are not so clouded with age that they cannot see what is before them. Though he showed for a moment his nature, there is a mystery in it that I find curious. Doubly so is the behavior of your Tanith. It has been my long experience that women do not give their friendships, or their affections, idly. I would hear his tale." In response to his king's gesture, the other Doorward approached Ûnran warily and untied him.

I was momentarily stunned, but went to the Orc's side anyway. He slowly chafed his wrists, not looking up at anyone but obviously just as surprised.

We filed into the cool interior of Meduseld, with me walking beside Ûnran. He didn't even glance my way.

"Ûnran," I ventured timidly, and he growled a warning. "I'm sorry."

"No yuh ain't," he snarled. "Yuh don't fuckin' care. Nobody does. Just a fuckin' Orc. Don't matter to nobody. Fuck off."

"That's not fair," I said defensively as we approached the long table. Servants were scrambling to lay out an extra six place settings and somehow manage not to come within a mile of the Orc at the same time. "I told you he has things..."

"Fuck... off," he snapped.

He didn't protest when I sat next to him, but he didn't say anything to me or look at me either. I felt lower than shit. Worse than when I had to let Gandalf take one for the team in Moria. Actually nauseous, as a matter of fact. And nothing was going to get resolved. We were surrounded by people, with no chance of having a private conversation anytime on the horizon. Not if we were riding (god, no) in a few hours. I picked at the food set in front of me, not really noticing what it was. How was I going to fix this? Gandalf was a wise old man; Ûnran was, let's face it, little better equipped than a kid. Gandalf understood that I couldn't screw up the future for personal reasons; I suspected Ûnran wasn't looking past the here and now. And right here, right now, I let the man who kicked his baby across a floor go free as if there was no reason to call him on it.

Hell, I'd write me off, too.

Tears stung my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. I didn't even have the will to wipe them away. After a few minutes, I couldn't stand it anymore, and vaulted off the bench. It was time to channel the Teen and run wailing out of the room to hide in the bathroom until the end of the dance.

Except I didn't know where the hell the bathroom was, and ended up in someone's bedroom. Scaring the living shit out of the someone who lived there.

"Sorry," I muttered, and was about to beat a hasty retreat when I realized who I was looking at. While I'm sure there were plenty of women in Edoras, there was only _one_ who would be living in Meduseld.

"You gave me a bit of a fright," she said, her hand pressed to her heart. Then she blinked and her face reddened. "You are Tanith, are you not?"

"Yeah," I said, wiping away the tears. "Are you Éowyn?" She nodded, and I extended a hand. Like Arwen, she wasn't quite sure about the gesture but accepted it anyway.

"You arrived with Aragorn and the... others," she said cautiously.

"Yeah," I acknowledged with a nod.

"I... I understand you have... befriended... an Orc," she said awkwardly.

Wincing, I sank into a chair and rubbed my face.

"Forgive me," she said quickly. "I did not mean to offend. It is what was told to me. I should have known it was an idle tale."

I could barely see her, my eyes were so blurred. I shook my head. "It wasn't a story. It's true. Probably isn't now, though."

She slowly eased herself into the seat opposite me. I wondered if she thought I was a strange creature to be wary of. The ironic thought made me snort a little.

"I confess, I have been undecided whether to join the company at table or...," she said haltingly. "Is he a tame Orc?"

I didn't have to even think about it. Honestly, compared to his buddies, Ûnran was practically a saint. I nodded, and sensed her sort of relaxing a little next to me.

"You know how sometimes you have to do something you don't want to," I said quietly. "Something you know is going to hurt someone... someone you care about, but you can't... If you _don't_ do it, a lot more people are going to suffer."

"I cannot say," she replied quietly. "Though I confess I have thoughts, sometimes..."

"Yeah, well, dressing like a man and going to war isn't as bad as _this_," I said wearily. I swear, after what I just did to Ûnran, I didn't give a rat's ass about Fate finding Her own way around anymore. Fuck her. Here you go, Éowyn. In case you were wondering what you'd be doing with yourself this year.

"I confess, the thought had crossed my mind," she said. "But tell me, what have you done that has you so consumed with sorrow?"

"I let him down," I said sadly. "I told him I had his back, that I was his friend. He trusted me, and I... I betrayed him. I don't think he'll ever forgive me for that." Bless her heart, she didn't point out his Orcishness or scoff. She offered her shoulder, and I took it.

* * *

><p>When I left Éowyn's chambers, my face pale and nose all sniffly, I didn't feel very much better. I stumbled back to the feast hall in a slight daze.<p>

Apparently in my absence, a few things had happened. The first thing I noticed was that Ûnran wasn't at the table anymore. I panicked a little, and scanned the room. My travel buddies were all standing around chatting amicably with the King, but no Orc could be seen. Gandalf was gone, too.

Approaching the group, I didn't even see it coming. Suddenly I was grabbed in a ferocious hug and lifted off my feet.

"Tanith!" Boromir cried. "It is good to see you well!"

"Hey," I replied with little enthusiasm, still looking for my Orc. Boromir set me back down and beamed at me.

"Boromir is fully recovered," Strider said. "He will accompany us to the Hornburg, then travel to Minas Tirith."

"Good," I said absently. "Where's Ûnran?"

"After you left, he was not far behind, but went in the opposite direction," he replied soberly. "Gandalf has been speaking with him for quite some time."

I nodded. Hopefully Gandalf was talking him in off the ledge, and getting him to talk about what happened. Hell, if he could get Gollum to spill the beans, Ûnran should be a piece of cake.

"Come, Tanith," Boromir said, and I noted a slightly stiff tone in his voice. "Tell me the tale of how you escaped the Orcs," he urged.

"I'm not in the mood," I said wearily. "Honestly, I'm worn out. I just want to make sure Ûnran's okay."

"Your friend is... a fascinating creature," Théoden commented. "I would not have considered the perspective of an Orc until this day."

"I told him much of what you told me," Strider supplied. I frowned at him, and he did a little shrugging head shake, like he was saying, 'except the icky bits.' I let myself relax a smidgen. "Rohan is even more determined to march against Saruman than before."

I nodded without saying anything.

"Tanith," Strider said quietly. "Tell us now. The full tale of Gríma Wormtongue. What was Ûnran accusing him of?"

Sighing, I looked down. The man was far away. We wouldn't see him again for awhile. He was out of reach now. What could it hurt? And I had to admit, I wanted to put the king on the spot. Force him to see that sometimes the monsters aren't Orcs. Sometimes evil isn't ugly. It had taken me a long time to see it myself, but he didn't have that kind of time now.

"So... I guess you know about the dreams," I began carefully. Théoden nodded, and looked like he was bracing himself. Mine was probably as close to a first-hand account as he was likely to get, and he probably dreaded what I was going to say. Good. You should. "Saruman's breeding his Uruk-hai... from your people. He's sending his Uruks out to villages and farms to raid. They're not just burning the places down; they're taking... captives."

The king winced and bowed his head. I caught a slight movement in the corner of my eye and glanced up; Éowyn was standing in the shadows, hugging a pillar as if it was the only thing holding her up. Swallowing, I continued.

"They're kept in cells, deep underground. The... the women. Orcs are chosen and go down there to..." My throat closed. It hit me like a blow to the chest that I could never be a reporter; I could not look into the eyes of the leader of these people and tell him what was being done. Not without difficulty. Taking a deep breath, I said quickly and quietly, "The women are strapped down for it. They can't fight."

There was a wail, and I suspected that the sound of running feet was Éowyn returning to her room. It occurred to me suddenly that she might move her cross-dressing event up a battle, and sneak into Helm's Deep just to stick it to Saruman's minions directly. Shit, I hoped not. Stay in the caves with the refugees, please. Save your moment of glory for The Big One or we're all hosed.

"You saw this happening... to my people," Théoden breathed, and I nodded. He looked like he was close to tears. "Please tell me, Tanith, that what you saw... has nothing to do with Gríma."

"I wish I could," I replied hoarsely. "If Ûnran were here, he'd tell you himself." I glanced in the direction they said he'd gone. "Wormtongue was never with Saruman when Ûnran saw him. He was... downstairs."

"Downstairs," Éomer repeated, his voice full of dread.

"What Ûnran was talking about... about someone not... not being dead yet," I went on, all of a sudden beginning to lose my grip, "he meant... his baby. Saruman... made him breed, and then... made him watch when the baby was... extracted."

There was muttering, and I caught a few mentions of 'spawn' and 'abomination.' I didn't have to go looking for the Brat; she was right there with her sleeves already rolled up.

"Saruman cut the woman's belly open and pulled it out," I clarified through clenched teeth, and the hall went silent. "Then he _let her __die in agony_, because she'd had four and he was done with her. When he realized it was a girl, he threw it at a wall. He fully expected Ûnran to run over and _eat it_."

The horrified looks they gave me after that revelation were almost comical. Like they weren't sure if it was okay to give a shit because of how that infant was made. Sort of uncomfortable and awkward, a little shifty-eyed, with a bit of 'I hope nobody sees me looking even slightly sympathetic' thrown in for good measure. Swallowing hard, I didn't let up on them. I didn't even contemplate reining in the Brat. Suck on this one, boys.

"That's where I woke up, Strider," I said, glancing at him. "I didn't see what came next. What I _did_ see was that Gríma was down there at the time. It was a large-ish chamber, where the breeding took place. A couple of Orcs were about their duties. And he was watching them. Watching them _rape_ women from Rohan. _Masturbating_ and watching them rape women from Rohan."

Théoden fell heavily onto a nearby bench, looking like the pacemaker just gave him the finger.

"Wormtongue saw his baby on the floor and _kicked it_," I went on relentlessly. "That little child, barely big enough to fit in two hands, had enough life left in her to cry for a minute. And then your man, your supposedly superior, better-than-Orcs _man_, laughed in Ûnran's face." I scanned the crowd for a moment, letting that sink in. Then the Brat hit them with both barrels. "Now maybe you think, because he's an Orc and he raped the mother of his child, it doesn't matter. Maybe you don't think he even gave a shit, because he's an _Orc_ and they're _animals_. You know something? He _didn't_ understand what that child was, didn't fully grasp the connection between them, but he _felt_ it. Down in his gut, he knew it was his. And seeing those two asshats treat her like she was a worthless piece of shit _destroyed _him."

Glaring at Legolas, who had the decency to look horrified, I snapped, "So there you go. You didn't think I saw awful enough shit, huh? Don't make me tell you what I saw, don't you _dare_. I could tell you things that would make your hair stand on end. I could tell you things that would make you storm the gates of Isengard _right now_ and beat the hell out of Saruman yourself! I could tell you enough to put you off your meals for a _year_! Don't get me fucking _started_, Legolas, because that Orc is _my friend_ and if anyone so much as looks at him funny, I will so completely and thoroughly kick their ass there won't be anything left of it when I'm done!" Pointing an accusatory finger back out the door of Meduseld, I snarled, "Wormtongue _had_ a choice. Ûnran didn't."

Right about then, Gandalf joined us, looking like he barely had his fury under control.

"Tanith," he said tightly, "you must see to Ûnran. He is... distraught."

Nodding, I started to leave, but turned to Gandalf first. "I told them. About Gríma."

The wizard nodded stiffly, his bushy eyebrows bunching angrily. "Yes. Ûnran told me as well."

In the opposite corner of the hall from where Éowyn's room was, I found the room with Ûnran curled up in a fetal ball on a large bed like you'd find in one of those historical romances, with the curtains and all. I wasn't feeling particularly romantic at the moment, though. The Floozy was, thankfully, utterly silent for a change.

I did wonder, briefly, if he was lying on the king's bed. Because that would be hilarious. At any other time, anyway.

For some reason, the stretch of floor between me and Ûnran seemed almost too great a distance to travel without frequent rest stops. I leaned against the closed door and thought maybe if I called ahead, I could assess the reception at the other end.

"Ûnran," I said quietly. "If you want me to leave, I'll understand."

"No," he muttered, though he never moved. His back was to the door, and to me. "Got no right. Got no choice. Do whatcha like."

"That doesn't sound like something Gandalf would have said to you," I replied, edging forward a few feet.

He snorted. "Whatta _you_ know what he said?"

"I don't," I conceded. "It just doesn't sound like him, that's all."

"Then go away," he snarled. "If I got a right, get outta here."

His voice was raw, like he'd spent the last hour crying _his_ eyes out too.

"I understand..."

"No, you fuckin' _don't_," he snapped, sitting up and glaring at me. Oh god, he was agonizing, you could see it in his face. I had to fight the urge to gather him up in my arms and... well, shit, I think he'd more than earned the boob pillow at this point. "They killed what was mine. Know what_ that's_ like, do yuh? Ever _not_ had nothin'? Ever had it all taken away or never given? Ever been told yuh ain't _worth_ nothin'? What yuh _are_ ain't nothin', whatcha _made_ ain't nothin'? Then yuh let someone tell yuh different, and _she_ fucks yuh just like everyone else."

"I'm _sorry_, Ûnran, please!" I cried. "I didn't do it because I don't care. God, if I had it to do over again, you bet your _ass_ I'd make sure he paid for what he did. Please don't hate me, Ûnran, I can't stand it. _Please."_

Here they came again. Tears poured forth, and I couldn't keep my voice steady. But like I said, I was done. I just didn't care anymore, not if the price was this high. "I'm sorry, Ûnran. I'm _so _sorry. But that... that piece of shit is supposed to kill Saruman. I... I had to let him get away so he could do that. He kills your Master and gets killed himself. Believe me, that's what I did it for. I _never_ wanted to hurt you."

I could tell by looking at him that he opened up, ever so slightly. He sort of became a little less rigidly opposed to my presence.

"Yuh sure?" he asked stiffly.

"Pretty damn sure," I rasped, and cleared my throat. "Everything I know about this time screams it." I took a couple more steps closer. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, but didn't rise.

"Wanna see that," he growled, staring at the floor.

"So do I," I said. "That's why I want to stick close to Gandalf. I think... unless everything I know is completely wrong, he'll be there when it happens. So... I have to... go to Helm's Deep." I shuddered and looked away. "I don't want you there, though. They'll be fighting Uruk-hai there. A huge number of them. You shouldn't have to watch that."

"We gonna lose?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yeah."

He slowly nodded. "Don't leave me, Tanith. Please."

"I promised I wouldn't, didn't I?"

"Aye," he replied. "Yuh did. And yuh ain't done it yet."

"No, I haven't." Some tension started to ease, and I closed the gap between us. He slowly looked up at me. "I _am_ sorry, Ûnran."

He looked down again. "Yuh gonna fight? Kill Orcs?"

"No." I laughed a little uncomfortably. "When have you ever seen me killing Orcs?"

Grunting slightly, he said, "Yuh handed out a few headaches."

"Yeah. This time, I think I'll just... hide. I don't want to see it either."

"I'll hide with yuh."

Feeling encouraged, I sat on the bed next to him. "I wonder if they'll give us a chance to take baths before we go?" I mused.

Ûnran shrugged, then smiled a little. "Want me to rub yer feet?"

Raising an eyebrow, I smiled back. "Feeling brave enough? I've been in these boots for days."

"Could wash'em for yuh," he suggested. "Pitcher over there."

"Are you serious?" I asked, frowning a little. He nodded. Shrugging, I struggled out of my stinky boots. Ûnran went to the washstand and poured water into a large bowl. I decided to spare the King's linens and moved over to one of his chairs. There was a carpet on the floor that felt really soft and nice against my bare toes, and I sort of flexed and kneaded the threads with delight.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of me, he took my feet in his lap and used a cloth dipped into the cold water to rub the sweat and yuck off them. Ah hell, that was delicious. I sort of slumped in the chair and closed my eyes. While he worked on one, he set the other on his hard-muscled thigh, and I found myself kneading his leg with my toes. After the washing, he started with the rubbing.

"Easy there," I advised softly. "Go _with_ the muscles, not against them. Oh. Yeah. You've got it. That's good."

His fingers and palms were rough-skinned, but they were strong, and he kept his claws out of the equation for the most part. I could feel them occasionally, but not enough to be alarming. Actually, it felt kind of good. Sent a few pleasant shivers down my spine. He paid close attention to each toe, rubbed his thumb firmly along the insteps, stroked the tops, worked small circles around the sides of the heel along the tendons there. Then he brushed his fingers along the bottom and hit _the spot_. I nearly shot out of the chair.

"Did I hurt yuh?" he asked with alarm, because I'd nearly kicked him in the face.

"No," I said breathlessly. "That just... tickled. Sorry. Couldn't help it."

He frowned. "What's 'tickled'?"

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Ain't never heard of it."

"Well, it's a reaction to touching," I said awkwardly, suddenly bereft of a decent vocabulary. I found it damn near impossible to explain something I'd understood all my life without ever reading a dictionary definition. "Um... sometimes you laugh when you're tickled."

"Ain't nothin' that touched me ever made me laugh," he growled bitterly.

"Maybe you weren't touched in the right place," I suggested, then blushed. Good god, did I really just say that? "Okay, uh... some people are really sensitive around their ears." _Like me_, I thought, remembering his little flirtation on the horse.

Tilting his head to the side, he reached up and touched his long, pointed ear and frowned.

"It works best if someone else does it," I said with a smile. "Here." Leaning down, I lightly brushed my fingertips down the ridge at the back of his ear.

Holy crap, you'd think I'd just removed the bones from his body. Ûnran's eyes rolled back into his head and he fell over backwards like he'd fainted.

"Dammit, are you okay?" I cried, rushing to his side. He lay there blinking up at the ceiling like a shell-shock victim, his mouth hanging open a little. He slowly drew a ragged, uneven breath and let it out slowly.

"Ticklin' makes yuh hard?" he asked breathlessly. Alarmed, I glanced down. Good god, he wasn't kidding. Mental note: stay the hell away from Ûnran's ears. Worse than a Ferengi.

"I'm really sorry," I muttered, helping him sit up. He was still sort of rag dollish, a little weak and unsteady. "That was... pretty unexpected, huh?" I tried to laugh it off, but it wasn't easy, not with such an obvious and embarrassing (for me, anyway) visual going on.

He shook his head a bit. "Nobody ever touched me like that." He tentatively stroked his ear again, but nothing seemed to happen to him. "Why's it work for you, and not for me?"

"Um... I'm a girl?" I suggested with a shrug.

"Aye," he said, and laughed a little. "You are that."

It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. "What's that scar across your chest, Ûnran? The one you didn't want to tell us about?"

He cringed and retreated a little, looking away. His face worked through several emotions, one of which was humiliation. Christ on a bicycle, this was going to suck. I almost told him I was sorry for asking and he didn't need to tell me if he didn't want to.

"Zûrash's mark," he muttered.

That took me by surprise. I thought they were friends. What on earth would Zûrash cut him for? "I don't understand."

"He... looked after me," Ûnran said tightly. "Kept fucks like Murûk away, cause we could stand against him together. Was better that way. Looked after me. Took care of me. Better that way."

Oh my god. "Ûnran...," I breathed, fresh tears sliding down my face.

"Wasn't so bad, from him. Least he... he didn't let nobody else..."

I pulled him into my arms and held him tightly. His grip was like iron as he shuddered and wept again. I would probably never fully understand how he could still want Zûrash around, after this. But I suppose when you're living in hell, and your options are almost zero, you'll take whatever kindness you can get, no matter what price you have to pay for it.


	24. The Exchange Rate in Isengard

**The Exchange Rate in Isengard is Ridiculously High**

Something wasn't right. It was a sort of sick feeling in my gut, and I couldn't quite grasp what it was. As I sat there with Ûnran, murmuring soothing nonsense softly in his ear and stroking his back, I just got more agitated.

When I should have been the one groveling for his forgiveness, he bathed my feet. He quite literally prostrated himself before me, as if _he_ had been the transgressor. I didn't like that. Not at all. Okay, admittedly, the foot massage was _awesome_, but that was beside the point.

What I'd naïvely assumed was a benign, supportive, nurturing friendship was apparently yet another abusive relationship heaped upon all the others he'd had to deal with. And Ûnran was so beaten down, he must have thought it was necessary to submit to humiliation and pain for the occasional comfort of belonging and being protected. Maybe just because he was an Orc, and that's how Orcs did things.

_Use my body any way yuh like._

Oh god.

"Ûnran," I said tentatively.

"Yeah?"

His voice was calm and relaxed. Maybe I should have just left it at that, but I wanted him to know something very important. Even if it set him off again.

Drawing back some so I could look him in the face, I said, "You don't owe me anything, Ûnran. You don't have to... give me anything, just to be your friend. To accept you. To... to protect you. What Zûrash did to you..." I faltered, and looked away for a moment, shuddering. To exploit someone's trust like that... I couldn't stomach it. I just couldn't. I forced myself to look at him again, and he looked tremulously close to dissolving again. "Ûnran, I will _never_ make you do something you don't want to do. I'll never... demand something... uncomfortable or... embarrassing... painful... I won't. I _promise_. You've seen how my friends and I are. We don't do that. We look out for each other, but we don't... expect payment for it. Do you understand?"

He looked away, his face contorting, and tried to turn completely aside.

"Don't shut me out," I said sadly. "Please don't do that."

"What the fuck _else_'ve I got to give?" he roared suddenly. "Got _nothin_'." He thumped his chest. "_This _ain't even mine. None of it's mine."

"That's not true," I said firmly. "You're not in Isengard anymore. You're not under your Master's boot. Your body isn't currency to buy protection or... or companionship. Your body is your own, your _mind_ is your own. You don't have to give _anything_ you don't want to anymore."

"Mind ain't my own," he snapped. "Still hearin'im. And it hurts." He faltered and his voice shook. "Every time I wanna fuck yuh, and I don't, it hurts. When I wanna kill, and I don't, it hurts. Wanna run till I don't hear it no more, but how far's _that_? When's he gonna stop tellin' me to hurt yuh? How long's it gonna be before... before I _have_ to to make it stop?" His face crumbled and he bowed his head. "Gandalf didn't know. All he could tell me was to hold on a little longer. Just... hold on."

I had no idea he actually felt physical pain. That must be what made it so easy to get the worst out of them. Make it hurt if they resist. Much more comfortable to just do it. Sort of the opposite of training dogs not to bark. Friends of mine had a really chronic barker, and short of surgery, they used a shock collar for a short time until the neighbors stopped complaining and the landlord stopped threatening eviction. It didn't take long for the dog to bury that urge to bark, let me tell you.

Heaving great breaths to calm himself, Ûnran stared at his clawed hands as if he barely recognized them as his own. "Wanna give yuh... everything," he muttered. "Always have. Long as I can remember. Even... before you were real. When you _weren't_ real... you'd take it."

What could I say? I couldn't give him something I wasn't _ready_ to give. And I certainly didn't want to take something from him if I couldn't return it in kind.

"Just... give me... time," I said unsteadily, and he looked at me. Slightly embarrassed – okay, _really_ embarrassed – I shrugged a little. "Ûnran, I _do_ like you. And I care about you. Maybe... something more... when I know you better... trust you... but..."

"But I'm a fuckin' _Orc_," he snarled brokenly and turned away again. "Can't trust an Orc. Filthy beasts, we are."

"No, that's not why," I insisted, then sighed. "Maybe a little. Not the beast part. Just... the Orc... part. I'm sorry, Ûnran!"

He was on his feet and striding across the room in a heartbeat. I had to spring up and race him to the door. Leaning against it to prevent him from leaving, I said, "Please, listen to me. It's not... _what_ you are, but what's _happened_ to you."

"That s'posed to make me _feel_ better?" he snarled, and the glare he leveled at me nearly sent me running for the hills. Spinning, he took a few steps, then turned back around. "Yuh saw _everything_! Yuh _know_ I didn't wanna do _none_ of that shit! Not even Zûrash... I swear. I _swear_ I didn't." Grimacing with disgust, he shook his head vigorously, like he was trying to dislodge a hateful memory.

"That was a horrible thing he did to you, Ûnran," I said angrily. "I don't know why you..."

"What if... what if I didn't mind it sometimes, eh?" he snarled. "What if I took my turn at _him_ once in awhile? Eh? That change things for yuh? Disgusted enough _now_, I'll wager."

"Do you _want_ me to be disgusted?" I asked seriously. "Because that won't do it. Where I come from, men sleeping with men is common."

He looked startled, like that was the last thing he ever expected to hear. "But... I never saw nothin'... like that. And you said... it was... horrible..."

"Did you _want_ him to do that? Did you do it to _him_ because you wanted to? Because you wanted _him_?"

It seemed he would almost prefer that I condemn what he did. He blinked rapidly, looking confused and unsure of his answers. Finally, he shook his head.

"Still thought of you," he muttered, staring at the floor. "Didn't want it to be him. Or her. Didn't want nobody else. Always you. Closed my eyes and... could think of you... maybe think... you wanted _me_." Squeezing his eyes shut and recoiling a bit, he huffed angrily. "Ain't stupid, though. Knew it wasn't you. Couldn't _never_ be you."

It was awkward and uncomfortable, once again, to be reminded that I was the subject of his sexual fantasies, but I forced myself to rally. He could have tried to make those imaginings a reality at any point, and he never did.

"So you didn't have much choice, then," I said gently.

"I _had_ fuckin' choices," he snapped. His voice was angry and harsh, and I had no idea why. "I had cunt every fuckin' day. Dead...fucking... cunt... every... fucking... _day_. Weren't no _reason_ to fuck _him_."

"Zûrash wasn't dead," I pointed out. "He was alive, and... he looked out for you." My gaze fell to that little pouch, and it suddenly hit me. "Ûnran... he must have... cared about you, at least a little. He didn't have to give you those. Maybe you didn't like what he was doing to you, and maybe you didn't like doing it to him, but... did he _force_ you? Or was it just... an agreement you both made?"

His face slowly crumpled, like a building falling down in slow motion. "I just... wanted... to _feel_," he said desperately, his voice pleading.

"I understand," I said soothingly, and embraced him again. "Anyone would want that. It's okay." Gradually, his arms went around me as well, as if he was giving in. Cautiously, perhaps grudgingly, accepting my acceptance. And maybe that's what he needed. He acted like he hated himself for doing it, and fully expected me to hate him too.

"Ûnran, I want you to understand something. You shouldn't feel ashamed of what you and Zûrash did. He was a friend to you. He cared about you, and I know you cared about him." He tensed, and seemed about to protest. I smoothed his hair and gripped him tighter. "It's _okay_. Just because you didn't see anything like that here, with us, doesn't mean it's wrong." I took a deep breath and steeled myself, channeling my inner mom, gearing up for The Talk. "When two people... care about one another, they don't... really... parade it around. It's... sort of private. That's why you never saw anything... intimate." A half chuckle snuck out. "I probably would've freaked out if something like that happened anyway."

"It wasn't... wrong," he said, choking a little. He seemed to be looking for a confirmation.

"No, not even a little," I told him. "As long as you both... wanted to do it, it wasn't wrong."

He nodded, and sniffled a bit.

"Oh Ûnran," I sighed, my voice still shaking, "I am _so_ sad about what's happened to you. Sometimes it's just unbearable. Because... _I_ care about you. Seeing you hurting like this... it tears my heart out. But I want what I feel for you to be something more than... pity." Yeah, _that_ would be fun to say: Sorry, future beloved, but I gave up the Precious to an Orc because I felt sorry for him. Guess you're shit out of luck.

Oh dear. What the _hell_ did the Floozy just say?

_You heard me._

"I'll take pity," he growled under his breath. "If that's all there is."

A little shaken by what just flitted through my mind, I stepped back to arm's length. "No, you won't," I said unsteadily. "It's no kind of... lasting thing. If that's all there is, you'll hate it, eventually. And I'll hate it all the time."

"Never hate yuh," he muttered. "You're... my Tanith."

Why did those three words make me feel so warm and snuggly inside? I found myself looking at him, _really_ looking at him... and it hit me that he might... _might_, mind you... eventually... maybe... _could_ be worthy of the Precious. If certain... things...

"I think... I think you're my Ûnran," I said awkwardly. His face went slack with surprise, then smoothed with such hope it wrenched my heart. "But..."

He cringed so hard, I faltered.

"'S'all right," he whimpered, looking away. "Yuh don't need to say it."

"No, I _do_. You've been hurt, and you're very angry. No, _listen to me_. You lash out because you don't know how else to deal with what happened to you. I'm sorry, but... you scare me a little. I'm not as strong as you are. If you freak out, I'm afraid... you'll hurt me..."

"No," he said, emphatically shaking his head. He went rigid and looked appalled by the thought. "I'd never hurt yuh. Never."

"You have to prove it," I said quietly. "I have... a degree of trust in you. But it's not complete. I feel like I have to be so careful, like the littlest thing I say will set you off. You _need_ to deal with what went on there, you _need_ to vent, to get it off your chest, to purge it from your system. I'll help you. I'll listen. You can cry on my shoulder any time you like. If you want me to sing for you, I can do that. Just don't... bottle it up any more, and don't shut me out. When you feel pain, come to me."

"What do I give _you_?" he asked uncertainly. "Whattayou want from _me_? I don't have much, but... _Anything_ you want, it's yours. Everything." Then he winced. "I ain't buyin' yuh. Just... givin'. Don't want all I give yuh to be... ugly shit I don't wanna remember." He bowed his head.

"The foot rub was nice," I suggested lightly, hoping he'd catch my tone and maybe smile a little. "Wouldn't mind more of those." I stepped into him and held him close again, resting my head on his shoulder. He hesitated a moment, then tightened his hold. "Hugs are always nice," I murmured, closing my eyes.

"Yer ass still hurt?" he whispered in my ear.

"Yeah," I replied with a chuckle. "Yours?"

"Yeah. Balls too."

"Don't get carried away, now," I teased.

I heard his quiet, deep laugh, only slightly strained. His hands slowly moved down my back.

"Can you... uh... not do more than that?" I asked nervously.

"Trust me," he purred, and his hands slid down over my butt.

Oh my god. My grip on him tightened as my knees almost gave way. When that other guy did it, I was lying face down on a couch and not otherwise touching him. It was entirely different standing up in Ûnran's arms.

And maybe the way I was feeling about _him_ made a huge difference, too. I just sort of... melted against him. Taking a shuddering breath, I let my own hands stray south on him. It was probably the boldest move I'd ever made, having always kept men at arm's length. But it seemed so... natural... with Ûnran. As my hands covered his butt, his purring got a bit louder. His breathing became irregular; his kneading and clutching hands pulled me close, and I could feel him hardening against me. He growled low in his chest as I caressed him gently. I couldn't bring myself to grab like he was doing, which felt _so good_. I didn't think my hands were strong enough, actually. He had one _hard _ass. Very tight, toned muscles back there. Maybe just being touched without pain or threat of violation was comforting to him, though, because I actually felt the tension releasing and the muscles relaxing a few degrees. Judging by where the tension was _increasing_, though, having his ass stroked was apparently highly arousing as well.

As is usually the case when fondling the boyfriend on the couch late at night, in walks dad.

"Tanith, Ûnran, the host is assem-...," Strider said as he walked in the door. I wished I was facing toward him so I could see his face. Sighing, I stepped out of Ûnran's arms and smoothed my shirt. Turning, I affected as nonchalant an expression as I could muster and smiled. Thank god he didn't look worse than embarrassed by what he saw.

"Just because you're destined to be King one day," I said sarcastically as I walked past him out the door, "doesn't mean you can barge into a room without knocking." I could hear Ûnran chuckling as he followed me.

Reaching the main hall, I stopped and glared at everyone getting their gear together. "All right, before I set one foot out of this place, will _someone_ get me a shirt with less ventilation?"

* * *

><p>Word spread quickly that Ûnran was coming with us to Helm's Deep. Angry eyes and muttered comments followed us all the way down to where the army was lining up. Ûnran kept his head down and didn't say a word. Even surrounded by the Fellowship gang, he looked scared to death. I wanted to hold his hand, show him I was still there with him, but... well, there's a grudging allowance, then there's a vicious poke in the eye. The only reason why he was walking with us unbound was because Théoden declared it would be so.<p>

Looking back, I noticed Éowyn standing in front of the doors of Meduseld, dressed like a warrior with an unsheathed sword before her. Wasn't... wasn't she supposed to come with us? Then I looked around, and didn't see any peasantry among the soldiers. Turning to Gimli, who was closest, I asked, "Hey, where is everybody?"

"Who?" he replied.

"You know, the people. Rohirrim. Commoners. Refugees. Aren't they coming too?"

His brows arched, inasmuch as could be seen, given how thick they were. "Of course not! They will make for Dunharrow, in the mountains south of here. It is better defended. Éowyn shall lead them." Chuckling, he said, "Truly, whatever would we do with them? Tis a long road we must travel."

Ah. Um. So... no deliciously fat and slow women and children to entice the Warg riders, eh? Just... pissed and well-armed soldiers. Okay. I can deal with that.

"It is good that we are finally off," he went on cheerfully. "Men require far too many words before deeds. My axe is restless in my hands, but it is a poor weapon for one who _rides_ into battle." Sighing, he shook his head. "It is Orc-necks I would hew, not shave the scalps of Men."

Ûnran huffed with annoyance beside me, but didn't say anything. Gimli shot him an embarrassed look. "Forgive my words. I suppose... your presence..." Then he chuckled. "You are so unlike an Orc, I forgot you _were_ one for a moment."

Slowly turning his head, Ûnran looked at the Dwarf with an inscrutable expression. I had to laugh. Well, I would have laughed anyway, just from what Gimli said. See? I had the same problem. The longer I was around him, the less... Orcish he seemed to me. He just kept getting more... Ûnran-ish.

Looking past Gimli, I saw Legolas marching along. He still had a few bruises from our earlier discussion about Orcs, which he'd managed to keep his mouth shut about ever since. Probably afraid I'd knock a few teeth out next time. Don't make me go all Ralphie on your ass again, Mister.

We found ourselves confronted with the horrors of horseback riding again. It was almost comical, how Ûnran left so many horses restless and trembling in his wake on the way to our mounts. Funny until I saw his face, that is. He didn't find it amusing at all. I think it actually shamed him, and I felt really bad about that.

Screw these people. I reached over and squeezed his hand reassuringly. He glanced at me and nodded stiffly.

Good old Hasufel, the only horse in Rohan willing to put up with the two worst riders in Middle Earth, was saddled up and ready for us next to Strider's mount. At least we'd had a couple of days to get used to the motion and balance, even if we probably wouldn't be doing barrel riding at the local rodeo anytime soon. On Strider's other side, Éomer climbed up, joined by Gimli who refused to take responsibility for steering his own horse. Chicken. Legolas rode all the way over by Éomer. Fine. Keep your ass and your commentary as far from us as you can get and still ride with the army.

With the help of a couple of bemused Riders, Ûnran and I scaled the Hasufel mountain and settled in with me in front. I was a little nervous about this; it hadn't been an hour since we had our hands on each other's butts. Now we were going to be damn near bumping uglies for miles and miles again. Wonder what would come of _that_.

"Keep your thoughts as pure as the water," I hissed over my shoulder.

"Stop smellin' like yuh wanna fuck," he retorted in an undertone, then grunted an amused laugh. He shifted a bit sharply, pretty much ramming my behind with his crotch.

"You are such an ass, Ûnran," I snapped haughtily, but couldn't help smiling.

"Seemed yuh _liked_ my ass a few minutes ago," he purred, and once again nuzzled behind my ear. "Gonna want a rubbin' after this ride."

"Um...," I said awkwardly. Strider was close enough to hear, and was giving us an incredibly shocked look. "Let's... uh... talk about it later, okay?" I took Gandalf's wise advice, and elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Growling with annoyance, Ûnran retreated.

"Take care, Ûnran," Strider said evenly. "You ride with us by the good word of Théoden King. Step out of line even an inch, and no word of his will save you. It is insult enough to sit upon one of their steeds. Offensive to their eyes, seeing you embrace a woman. Do not add to it by taking... liberties. No matter how welcome they may be." He arched an accusatory eyebrow at me.

"Nice," I growled. "Suck the fun _right_ out of the room. You haven't changed a bit."

"And you _have_," he replied. "Not for the worse, but you have changed. Perhaps I have as well." His brow furrowed thoughtfully, and he looked away.

"Forth, Eorlingas!"

Startled, I wondered what Strider's odd comment was about, then the host started to move. A hell of a din rang out, what with the trumpets blaring and the shield and spear bashing going on all around us. Ûnran clung more tightly to me. Once the horses were all in motion, there must have been a signal up around the front, because all of the horses, including the ever-attentive Hasufel, suddenly sprang forward.

Ah, yes. I'd almost forgotten. With no real confidence whatsoever, I hoped Helm's Deep was only a couple blocks away from Edoras. The rump-killing had begun.

* * *

><p>Well past sundown, the generals or whatever decided it was time to camp. Likely to rest the<em> horses<em>. I knew how these people were. Ûnran and I grumbled in shared misery as we laid out the bedrolls we'd been commissioned. We stuck close to our friends. Okay, _my_ friends. It was probably a bit much to include Ûnran in our little clique just yet. He was sort of the 'friend by association' hanger-on at the moment.

Here and there, seasoned campaigners were pitching tents, and of course Théoden had a gigantic affair in the middle of the action. We weren't allowed to light campfires, so it was hard tack and water for us. I sighed. Not a _lembas_ biscuit for miles. I found myself between Ûnran and Boromir when we bedded down, oddly enough. I'd honestly forgotten all about him, having barely acknowledged the man when we met in the Hall. Now he was looking at me with a hard expression that brought my defensive shields right up.

"It's... good to see you again," I said cautiously.

"Is it?" Boromir replied. His eyes flicked past me, and I noticed Ûnran out of the corner of my eye, hovering over me a little before lying down himself. Likely giving Boromir the stink-eye.

Sighing, I gave the man a withering look. "Don't start with me. I just wiped up the floor with Legolas this morning. I'm not entertaining anyone's 'well-meaning' advice tonight."

"I was told you lie with it, but I did not believe them," he snapped in an undertone. "It would seem this is so." My eyebrows shot up.

"If by 'lie with,' you mean 'sleep like the dead next to,' then yes, I do," I retorted. "And his name is _Ûnran_, not _it_."

"You would give yourself to _that_," Boromir growled, "when there are men who would kill for a glance?"

"I'm not asking _anyone_ to kill for me," I replied. "And who are these bloodthirsty mystery men?" Leaning closer and glaring hotly at him, I snarled, "Where were they when I was up to my _ass_ in Orcs a few days ago? What were they doing when I was cringing in terror of said ass being the entertainment for a hundred bored Orcs?"

"We followed," he bit back. "We were coming. We ran as fast as we could."

"I know that, and I'm not blaming you or anyone," I hissed. "I just want you to realize that it was _Ûnran_ who took care of me, who protected me, who risked _his own life_ to keep me safe. So don't you _dare_ treat him like shit, because you'll have _me_ to answer to if you do."

Just to thoroughly crush his balls (figuratively speaking), I turned my back on him and snuggled up against Ûnran, who was apparently just as eager to make Boromir suck it as I was because he put his arms around me. Boromir growled something under his breath and moved somewhere else.

"Hands off the ass," I warned Ûnran under my breath.

"What if I wanna handful or two?" he whispered with amusement.

"Come on, I just took a dump on him. Don't rub his nose in it."

"He wants you," he said stiffly. "Can smell it on'im."

"Hmph. Not interested."

"Smells like yuh are."

Grinning against his chest, I reached down and patted his butt. "That's all you, sweetie."

His chuckle sounded so good to me, I just left my hand there for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>Morning brought fresh hell in the form of dragging myself back into the saddle for another full day of pain and suffering. Ûnran didn't feel very frisky, just leaning heavily on me and snoring in my ear sometimes. Word filtered back to us that we were making for the Fords of the Isen, and I wondered what that meant. I was expecting a beeline for Helm's Deep. What, false advertising? More Jacksonian lies told to the impressionable idiots?<p>

When we halted for a brief rest, I overheard Gandalf and Legolas talking in worried tones. Maybe it was the rising tension and raw nerves of hundreds of men all around me, or just some sort of blanketing doom in the air, but I wished I'd stayed behind. Hiding in the mountains was starting to sound like a really good idea.

"Look!" one of the men towards the front called out. "A Rider comes swiftly!"

I exchanged a look with Strider, neither of us sure what to think. Ûnran perked up as well.

"Is Éomer here?" the Rider called out. "You come with too little strength, and too late. We were driven back from the Isen yesterday with great loss. All of Isengard must be emptied, so great a force was unleashed upon us. Saruman has armed the wild men and Dunlendings against us as well. Erkenbrand has drawn back to Helm's Deep, and the rest of his men are scattered."

As he gave his report, I realized the depth of suckage was underestimated. I'd actually forgotten about the Warg attack, not that I wanted the distraction at this point. Getting diverted to a full-on battle out in the open without benefit of thick walls and Elven archers was plenty scary for me. But were the Wargs still coming? It was beginning to look like that was another dramatic addition. Next thing you know, someone would be telling me the damn Elves wouldn't be coming to help us. If they didn't, so help me, I'd take the whole damn load of them off my Friends list.

Théoden spoke with the Rider for a few minutes, and Gandalf scouted ahead a bit. It was clear to me, based on the glowering looks and poorly-concealed grumbling, that an enemy soldier was sitting on my horse, and this messenger presented a stark reminder of who Ûnran was, where he came from, and what we were riding to face. I could feel him trying to make himself small behind me.

Suddenly, Gandalf came thundering back to the host.

"Ride, Théoden!" he called. "Go not to the Fords, but ride for Helm's Deep with all haste. I must leave you for awhile, for I have an errand of grave importance." Addressing the host and our little Fellowship in particular, he commanded, "Keep well the Lord of the Mark till I return. Await me at Helm's Gate! Farewell!" And he was off like a shot, Shadowfax making them a silver blur in the distance in a matter of moments.

Now urgency spurred the army, and we rode hard through the night. Scouts brought reports, and I finally heard about those elusive Warg riders, though we didn't see them. They overtook and scattered Erkenbrand's surviving force, leaving many more dead. I felt sick. The damn movie made it seem like they made it to the fortress and got to hang out for awhile before all hell broke loose. Now we were racing against a monumental horde of Orcs that had a head start on us.

And I was completely confused. Éomer was _here_, not banished and roaming the plains with his band of merry men. Apparently it was this mysterious Erkenbrand guy Gandalf had ridden off to rally, not Éomer. God, I hoped he had enough men to make a showing come morning. Enough still alive to scare the bejesus out of the Orcs. At least Strider hadn't fallen off a cliff. There was that to be thankful for.

But that was _all_. It was getting dark, so now we could see behind us the torches and flames erupting like Yasgur's farm in August as the Orcs burned everything that stood in their path. Yeah, they were maybe a mile off, but they were on the run and coming up on our rear. Having one of their number cleaved to my backside was suddenly very uncomfortable.

Eventually, we made it to the gates. A bit of chatter with the guards, then we rode through. I was so relieved to be safely behind those huge walls, I almost cried. Evidently, Théoden prepared everyone for Ûnran's arrival, because they barely spared him more than a thoroughly hateful, if-my-king-hadn't-just-told-me-not-to-kill-you-I'd-kill-you glance before seeing to their duties. We left Hasufel in their capable hands and let ourselves be herded to the keep.

"You will go to the caves," Théoden told Ûnran and I, showing signs of serious agitation. "I hope I do not need to tell you..."

"It's okay," I assured him quickly. "I'll keep him out of trouble."

The king appraised Ûnran for almost a minute. Thankfully, Ûnran was completely terrified, and wasn't up to the task of being a snarky, blustering Orc at the moment. "You have shown mighty restraint up to this point. You will be among women and children in those caves, many who have been routed from their homes by your like. Some have barely survived attacks with their lives or their fortunes whole. Remain as you are, in faithful service to Tanith, and I will be merciful when the battle is done. Stray but a _little_ down the path you once walked, indulge even the _slightest_ temptation to exact vengeance upon innocents for what we do here, and my wrath will be unquenchable. Do we have an understanding?"

Ûnran seemed to be having a huge problem with swallowing for a moment, but he nodded quickly.

"Erkenbrand have mercy upon his king for sending an Orc into his hold," Théoden muttered as he strode away.


	25. Who Could Hate an Orc With Dimples?

**Who Could Hate an Orc With Dimples? Honestly.**

I don't think it would have mattered whether poor old Gamling announced us to the assembled women and children or not, the reaction would have likely been the same. The whole area near the entrance to the caves cleared like someone with lactose intolerance just ate a pint of Ben and Jerry's. There were screams and looks of horror. Women shielded their kids as if Ûnran was armed to the teeth and had a _Babies Make Good Eatin'_ bib on. Gamling looked sympathetically at me, and snarled with disgust at Ûnran, then left us to fend for ourselves. We could already hear the low rumble at the back of the caves starting to work its way forward as the Orcs advanced up top.

Shivering, I scanned the place and located a little out-of-the-way spot where we could chill until the whole mess blew over. I wanted to crawl into a hole. You know, a deeper hole. One where you couldn't hear every footstep over your head. My apartment didn't even have an upstairs neighbor, and now all of a sudden I had ten thousand of them, all extremely pissed and moving furniture around. And apparently they were cloggers, too. Maybe doing a little bit of step dancing. You know, to throw the humans off their game. _What're they doin' down there? Beats me, but they sure got style._

The caves were different than I expected. The ceiling wasn't nearly as vaulted as in the movie; rather, it was only a couple feet over our heads. The formations were lovely, sparkling in the torchlight, and at any other time, I would have been entranced. At the moment, though, it all looked like one fancy-shmancy tomb to me.

I'm no geologist, and I was pretty sure the caves stretched _back_ into the mountains _behind_ Helm's Deep, yet the ground carried the sounds of the approaching army so well through the rock, it was like they were right on top of us.

Ûnran followed in my wake like a second shadow, barely allowing enough space between us to walk normally. He kept stepping on the heels of my boots, as a matter of fact, and once I stopped, he wasn't ready and plowed into me.

"For Christ's sake, Ûnran!" I hissed, elbowing him in the kidneys.

"They're watchin' me," he protested. "Don't leave me here alone, Tanith."

Glancing back, I realized he was still afraid. Maybe he was wondering how soon after the shock of his presence wore off, that some of those women would come after him. Or god help him, all of them _en masse_. These weren't disciplined soldiers accustomed to following the orders of their king without question. They were, no matter what men may think, the heads of their households, the ones who birthed and raised the babies, the ones who washed and buried the dead, the ones targeted for abuse when the enemy soldiers rolled through town. Their sons, brothers, husbands, even a few grandfathers were up there facing an unbelievably huge army of Ûnrans, as far as they were concerned. And he was _here_, alone and weaponless.

God, I hoped there weren't any rape victims in the crowd. He wouldn't stand a chance. People who are on the path of vengeance tend to think permission is better asked for _after_ the fact, probably because it's so rarely granted _before_.

"Just... keep your head down," I muttered, pushing him into the little niche I'd picked. Once he was settled, I sat outside of it, keeping an eye out for threats. Damn. It was the reverse of when we were with the Uruk-hai. He watched over me then. I guess it was payback time.

"Stinks in here," he commented under his breath. I took a sniff of the air, and while it was a little stale, I couldn't really smell anything gross.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Smell their fear," he explained, wrinkling his blunt nose and exhaling sharply.

"What's it smell like?"

His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Don't know what to say. Just... stinks. Like... sweat and piss. But not..." He shrugged. "Don't know. Don't like it."

"Better get used to it," I said sadly. "We're gonna be here all night."

He nodded, then his head jerked up. "Tanith...," he warned.

Turning, I saw an elderly woman approaching us. Wow. She had 'pissy librarian' written all over her. Pursed lips and hair up in a bun, too. Holy shit.

"Why is _that_ here?" she snapped, pointing at Ûnran like he was a pair of dirty pants that should have been taken to the laundry room, but mysteriously ended up in the kitchen.

Apparently she was the designated spokesperson. Standing so I wouldn't feel quite so much like a four-year-old being dressed down by an angry adult, I put on the most serious face I could muster. "He's... my friend."

Oh, she didn't expect _that_, but she recovered quickly. Even waved her hand dismissively, probably implying that I should pull the other one, it plays a song. "There is no such thing. It should be up among its own folk, not down here. What madness possessed the king to send it down?"

"His name is _Ûnran,_ and he defected," I said a touch waspishly. "He escaped from Saruman's army, and we're keeping him safe."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Keeping _it_ safe? Whatever from?"

I gave her a 'thank you, Mr. Obvious' look and gestured around at all the people in the caves. Pointed up at the roof above us where the dull rumble of thousands of feet could be heard like an engine's hum. Shrugging, I said, "He isn't safe _anywhere_, really. Saf_er_ is about all I can give him."

"And why would you _want_ to give it such a thing? It has murdered and burned and..." She stopped herself. Honestly, these people. Did they fear the 'R' word so much they couldn't even _say_ it? I could understand wanting to be discrete around men, but when it was just us girls...

"_He_ hasn't," I said firmly. "He was inside Isengard all his life until a couple weeks ago, then he and the bunch he was with were focused on finding the group _I_ was in. They didn't burn anything in transit. So _he_... is sort of... innocent. Ish."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "An Orc friend is impossible to imagine. An _innocent_ Orc, even more so."

Shrugging again, I said, "Maybe. But _he_ is." I couldn't bring myself to count the breeding pits as evidence against him. He never liked that place, or what he had to do. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught his eyes. There was fear there, but trust as well. He totally trusted me. I couldn't let him down.

"Look. Believe it or not, and I honestly don't care if you don't, he's a good person who was stuck in an awful place, an awful situation. I helped him get out of it, and he helped me. I was captured by the Orcs he was with, and instead of just letting them... He stood by me. He protected me. And when a chance came for me to escape, I took him with me."

The woman snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. "I find that difficult to believe."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. Believe _this_, though – _your king_ sent him down here. He trusts him enough to let him take shelter in a cave full of his own people. Does that sound like something just any old Orc would get to do?"

Narrowing her eyes, she said stiffly, "Théoden King is a man. A man's reasons for doing almost _anything_ are beyond my understanding."

"Oh honey, you got that right," I muttered, rolling my eyes. Glancing back at Ûnran, I caught him rolling his shoulder and flinching a little. As soon as he realized I was looking, he stopped. Sighing, I turned back to the woman and forced myself to be polite.

"Um... you wouldn't happen to have some healing ointment or Bacitracin or anything like that around, would you?" My dad was old school and swore by Merthiolate, but I didn't hate _anyone_ enough to give them _that_. Windex would be better.

"Are you injured?" she asked, shooting Ûnran an accusatory glare.

"Not me, _him_," I clarified a little huffily. Her expression hardened.

"A battle rages above, our men fighting the likes of that, and you would have me give even a small portion of our precious supplies to the Enemy?"

Shifting uncomfortably, I opened my mouth to beg, but Ûnran interrupted.

"Don't matter, Tanith," he growled quietly. "Just leave it."

Glancing back, I said, "It looks like it hurts. Doesn't it?"

He shrugged. "Used to it. Ain't dead of it yet. I'll be all right."

Huffing a little, I muttered, "Boys. They think they're so tough. Okay, if you won't give me anything useful, can I have some water and a rag or something? It's an absolute mess, but I suppose just cleaning it up could help."

"Cleaning _what_ up?" she asked suspiciously.

"His _back_," I said impatiently. "He's been whipped _a lot_. Nobody ever treated the cuts. He couldn't reach them to do it himself."

"I do not understand," she said, frowning. "Why would the king have it flogged then send it down..."

"Your _king_ didn't order it, his _Master_ did," I said as patiently as I could. "Look, anytime he didn't want to do the nasty things Saruman ordered him to do, which was _frequently,_ he got punished for it. If he did it and it wasn't 'satisfactory,' he got punished. Crap, if he looked the wrong way at the wrong Orc, he got beaten up. It's the way things were in there. It sucked something awful."

Brow furrowed, she squinted her eyes at him. "Show me these wounds."

"Are you a healer, or an accident gawker?" I asked suspiciously. I wasn't about to have him strip down so she could gloat smugly at his suffering.

Confused for a moment, she said rather snippily, "I am a healer. Now show me."

I just could not hold up against an imperious woman like her. Her tone reminded me of my grandmother, and that was one ironclad even Farragut would have a hell of a time sinking. _She_ I could see standing toe-to-toe with a Balrog and scolding it into submission. To hell with 'you cannot pass.' She'd be all, 'you did _not_ just track mud on my nice clean floor after I spent _two hours_ on my hands and knees scrubbing with _too small a brush_ because your granddad can't be bothered to get the things I need to make _his_ life more comfortable, sitting there with his newspaper and his feet up like he rules the world when he's been retired from _janitorial_ service for twenty years and _still_ can't imagine why I'd need anything stronger than _dish_ soap to get axle grease out of his clothes, and never even _thinks_ of pre-soaking before throwing it all in the clothes bin _on the bottom_ so now _everything_ smells like the garage he hasn't cleaned out in years even though he spends all his waking life in there tinkering with this and taking apart that, making _more_ messes he won't clean up...'

Man, just thinking about her made me want to curl up in a ball and sing _la la la la la la_ with my hands over my ears. That would have sent the Balrog uncomfortably back into its hole, apologizing for not wiping its feet first. Best just to do it, don't argue about it, and for god's sake, don't let her wind herself up.

"Sorry, Ûnran," I said wimpily. "Let her see. Maybe she can do something for you."

"Hmph," the woman snorted. "I'll not be touching it. That's _your_ problem."

"Fine," I snapped. "_I_ don't mind at all." Turning away from her grimace of disgust, I gestured for Ûnran to step up the shirt removal. The sooner this little old lady from Pasadena was gone, the better.

Reluctantly, he untied and removed his shirt. Her gasp of shock and stunned expression almost made me smirk, if it were anyone other than Ûnran she was looking at.

"I will... fetch something," she breathed, and scurried away like a pack of hungry Wargs was on her tail. Huh. Maybe the old bag had an ounce of sympathy for suffering, no matter _whose_ it was.

"Don't let'er touch me," Ûnran growled over his shoulder. "Don't let'er get near."

"I won't," I promised, and laid my hand on his shoulder in reassurance. I had only just gotten used to the sounds above our heads when they seemed to thunder louder all of a sudden, as if the army was passing directly over our heads. Many wide eyes turned upward, staring fearfully at the low ceiling of the caves. I wondered when the _kaboom_ was coming. Dear god, I hoped that was artistic license and the melodramatic need boys had to blow shit up, as if the sheer terror of being outnumbered three to one by merciless monsters wasn't enough.

Near us, a young woman clasped a baby to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut, wincing and trembling. The baby was just inconsolable, and she was probably too young a mother, and too damn scared, to be much comfort. I wasn't particularly good with little ones myself, but at the moment, I was probably less scared, if only because I was the only one who knew how this whole affair was going to end.

I approached her a little timidly, and said, "Do you need some help? I can hold her for you. Just for a minute, if you want a break."

"You'll not let... _that__..._," she breathed haltingly, staring at Ûnran.

Glancing back, I saw that he'd half come out of the niche, his attention completely focused on the baby now that the little girl had made herself known. I waved him off, and he reluctantly retreated.

"It's okay," I said to her. "He's just... well... never seen a baby, I guess. How old is she?"

"Six months," the woman said. "How can he not have seen...?"

"You won't believe this," I said, doing a swift calculation in my head, "but your baby's older than _he_ is."

"That cannot be so," she said, and it looked almost like she might have relaxed enough to laugh. I shook my head.

"Saruman's a wizard," I explained. "And he had an army to raise. He didn't want to waste time on... babies." I looked up at the ceiling, seeing in my mind's eye an ocean of black forms hurling themselves against the fortress walls, climbing up ladders and throwing grappling hooks, ramming the gates with tree trunks. "Most of them are probably between a few months and a few years old," I said quietly.

"How do you know this?" she whispered fearfully. Thankfully, her question snapped me out of my reverie enough to remember how much I didn't want these people to know.

"H_e told me_," I said, jerking a thumb over my shoulder at Ûnran. "There are a lot of things going on in Isengard none of us would've known about if he hadn't told us."

"Here," the old healer said as she returned with an armload of stuff. She had rags, probably bandages, a few pots of something, and a young girl trailing along behind struggling with a heavy bucket of water. "As I said, I'll not be touching it, but I'll instruct you. Come along, now."

Shrugging at the young mother, I turned back to my charge and knelt behind Ûnran. It was the kind of puss-encrusted mess that would have Freddie Krueger sympathetically offering some skin treatment tips. "This is _not_ going to feel good," I warned him as I soaked one of the rags. Glancing at the healer and her assistant, the latter of whom seemed to be catatonic with fear, I set to work.

He did no more than stiffen and cringe occasionally at first, but once I started really scrubbing those infected cuts up between his shoulder blades, he started losing his grip. I was dimly aware of a gathering crowd around us, but pushed it out of my mind.

"Easy, Ûnran," I soothed, "I just need to get the worst of it cleaned out, then that part will be over."

"It hurts," he whimpered, and I could hear the sob in his voice, just demanding to be set loose.

"I know it does," I murmured. "Looks to me like the Pitmaster was a little too good at his job."

"Aye," he grunted, then flinched particularly hard and growled when I hit a deep cut running along his lower ribs. "Looked for reasons to... unh... have at us. Didn't need much."

"So you weren't the only one?" I asked. "And here I thought you were his favorite."

"Nah," Ûnran chuckled, then groaned, "Just... lucky."

"And a wee bit sassy, I'll bet," I suggested with a smile. Now that the top layer had been scrubbed off, his entire back was raw. Wiping off my hands, I took the healer's pot of whatever it was... _Mannish_ healing crap, I suppose... and started working it into the cuts as carefully as I could.

"Weren't _sassy_," he protested. "Just told'im to go fuck hisself a few too many times, is all. Didn't like that, for some reason."

"Some people can be so sensitive," I agreed with a laugh. "I'm sure you meant it in the nicest possible way."

He snorted with amusement. "Yeah. Was just chattin'. Didn't mean nothin' by it."

"Sure." When I'd covered all of the open cuts with the salve, and laid bandages over-top, I asked, "Does it feel better? Less pain?"

"Aye," he said, nodding. "Thank you, Tanith." I helped him get into his shirt once more.

When I finally turned my attention away from him, it seemed that the entire population in the caves was huddled around us. It was a little unsettling, until I saw their faces. Sure, there was disgust. But several of them were also shocked, and maybe overwhelmed with incredulity. Did they think he'd backhand me for making his cuts sting? Retaliate like a dumb animal that doesn't understand you're trying to help it?

Or were they just freaked out because I touched him like he was a person?

The young mother was in the front row, her baby apparently quieted down now that the noise of the Orc army had dialed back to a dull throb. There were other children, too, I noticed. Lots of babies being bounced or rocked in their mothers' arms. Toddlers _and_ teens, though the teens were all girls. It hit me that their male peers must be up in the battle, and I shuddered. Kids that young shouldn't have to carry a weapon. Not in this world, and actually not in mine either. But it happened, in both places, all too often.

Shaking myself, I stood like a wall between them and Ûnran, though it didn't look like they were going to rush him or anything. The healer glanced back at the crowd, then looked at me with an expression I had no idea how to read.

"How are you able to touch such a creature?" she whispered. "And why is... _he..._ so unlike..." She shook her head, at a loss for words.

"Like I said: he's a good person," I replied pointedly. "And a _person_, I'd like emphasize. I'll bet every single one of them up there _could_ have been like him, if Saruman let them. But he didn't. He made them the way they are. Do you understand me? _Saruman made them that way._" Though I was tempted to pull Ûnran forward and make them look at him, _see_ him, I restrained myself. He wasn't exactly hiding behind me, but... well... yes he was. And i didn't want to drag him out of his comfort zone. Not so soon after...

"He's five months old," I told them flatly. "There are Orcs up there even younger than he is. Saruman took that away from them," I said, pointing at the young mother and her child. "Think about it. Think about what they lost."

Everyone seemed to grow restless all of a sudden, and heads turned to look at the young mother and her child. Those further back looked at their neighbors and the little bundles _they_ held.

"He used magic to do a lot of rotten things because _he_ was in a hurry. And because _his_ goals were the only things on his mind, he didn't give a second thought to the Orcs he made. What kind of effect it might have on them."

"And how are they 'affected'?" the stern, snippy woman asked, arching her brows and crossing her arms over her chest again. Yup, the lips pursed, too. Good god, she looked ready to wind up...

Apparently her sympathy for his injuries only lasted while she was looking at them. What a lovely woman.

"Like anyone would be," I snapped. I could feel _myself _winding up. "They didn't have _this_. They didn't have a mom holding them when they were scared, or telling them it was going to be all right. They didn't have a dad teaching them how to fish or throw a baseball. They didn't have anyone, _anyone_ caring whether they lived or died. Something you all take entirely for granted, they never had."

I faltered and looked back at Ûnran, remembering when he was born, almost hearing his screams again. "They're brought into the world like you see him now. All grown up and no clue why they're here. What they're meant to do. How they're supposed to act. Where and who they _are_. Blank slates. And Saruman writes what _he_ wants on that slate."

The pounding of a million feet suddenly got louder, and everyone, even Ûnran, looked up at the ceiling as if they could see through hundreds of feet of rock or however deep we were. I couldn't help myself; they seemed so close, all those Orcs, and not knowing what was really going on... probably something different from the movie, no doubt... It was like Moria, when I wanted a little comfort from Ûnran because they were _his_ people, and he'd know what to do. Maybe how best to hide from them.

Without really thinking about what I was doing, or who was watching, I backed into his chest and awkwardly put an arm around his waist. He didn't hesitate to embrace me in return, his own eyes nervously raised above us, momentarily forgetful of the watchers as well. A particularly loud boom had me cringing against him, clutching the front of his shirt tightly.

"Gonna be okay," he said quietly, trying to reassure me. "Won't let'em get yuh. Fight'em all, if I have to."

Taking a deep breath, I calmed down. Just _that_ was all I needed, I guess. The reassurance that he was on my side. As he'd always been, I suppose.

The women and children didn't feel particularly soothed by his words, and some of the younger ones began to cry. The young mother had a time of it trying to quiet her baby, but the little girl was obviously feeding off her mom's terror, and _that_ was speaking more loudly to her than the bouncing, stroking, and shushing.

Maybe I wasn't good with kids, but I could carry a tune. More or less. Dredging up an old traditional song from my dad's bottomless storehouse of weird medieval shit, I started to sing softly.

_By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,  
>Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomon'.<br>Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae  
>On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.<em>

You'd think these people had never heard a song before. Or maybe my voice was shaking with so much fear, my performance was just that shockingly bad. The other possiblity was that Ûnran was once more captivated by the baby. Wary of the women's eyes on him, he only leaned forward a little.

"That's like... the tiny one, ain't it?" he asked awkwardly.

Nodding, I said quietly, "She's about how big _you_ ought to be, if your Master hadn't been in such a god damned hurry."

The old healer just stared, blinking. Several of the women were likewise transfixed. I wondered if they found some pity in there, and just didn't know what to do with it. Traditions among their people would probably demand that they not give a crap. He's an Orc, after all. But hating something far away and hating something you're currently standing in front of are two different things. It saddened me, but Ûnran looked every bit like the abuse he suffered in Isengard was the worst possible torment, especially when he was looking at a child _his age_, being cared about and soothed, caressed and sung to. _Wanted._ Something he never knew, and never even saw among his own kind.

"I don't expect you to suddenly care," I told them. "Just... don't punish _him_. He's well and thoroughly paid for whatever wrongs were done to your people. I promise you that."

Turning away, I urged him to get back into that niche, and sat down with him. I couldn't bear their looks anymore, and neither could he. Behind me, it sounded like they were dispersing. Maybe I gave them some things to think about. As long as they thought about them relatively far away, that was okay with me.

"That was uncomfortable," I said quietly.

"Ain't gonna have one, am I?" he muttered.

"Have what?"

"One'uh them," he replied, nodding toward the others.

"What, a woman?" I asked. To my surprise, I felt a little... something... stir. At any other time or place, I might call it jealousy. Stupid thought. Shut up, Floozy.

_I didn't say a word._

Yeah, well, you _thought_ something.

"No," he said, shaking his head and smiling a little. "Well, ain't gonna have one'uh _them_, neither. Don't _want_ one'uh them. I meant a tiny one. That one weren't so tiny, though." Now he chuckled a bit.

"Well, she's been growing for six months," I pointed out. I nearly kicked myself for feeling relief. _Relief_, dammit! "They certainly don't come out that big. The mothers wouldn't ever let the fathers touch them again, if they did."

"Tanith," he said, his brow furrowed. "Why do you defend me?"

That was a completely unexpected question, and I just sort of stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Sighing, I pointed at the ceiling. "Because you're not _them_. You're _you_. And _you_ regret what you did. _You_ don't ever want to do it again. _You_ defended me when I was in a tight spot. I guess I think you've suffered enough, and now it's time for the suffering to end." I shrugged helplessly. "I care too much about you to let it continue."

He nodded, and seemed to be debating something heavily in his mind. Finally, he looked up at me and said a little shyly, "Yuh wanna... throw the bones with me?"

Admittedly, my brain went straight to 'throw the bones' as a euphemism for sex. Damn Floozy and her one-track mind. "Sure," I said and smiled. "I'd be glad to."

Grinning sheepishly, he eagerly smoothed the play area, then untied the pouch and shook the little bones out on the rocky floor. "Yuh saw'im give'em to me, so yuh know 'bout the points, right?"

"Yeah, I think so," I assured him. I couldn't believe how badly I wanted to hold those little dice-like things in my hand. It had nothing to do with who gave them to Ûnran, and everything to do with how _he_ felt about them. At first I thought they were just a treasured gift from someone he had a degree of caring for, then I realized that it was about ownership. Having something to call your own. I took so much for granted, didn't even think about what it might be like to be completely denied possessions of any kind. Even told your own body wasn't within your control. I suspected that he'd let those women roll right over him and peel his skin off strip by strip without raising a hand against them, but good god, don't let a single one of them touch his bones.

And now he was letting _me_ touch them. It was like being asked to go steady. Like being given your new boyfriend's class ring or letter jacket. Only a hundred times more.

"You can throw first," he offered, nodding. I scooped up the bones and just held them for a second or two. They even _felt_ different from the oddities in my own dice bag back home. More different than just the material they were made from, that is. They belonged to him. They were _precious_ to him. Maybe not made of gold or enchanted with malevolent magic, but Precious nonetheless.

My first throw was pretty dismal; I got one pair, which meant tough noogies, I think. Made me long for Yahtzee, where you could throw a few times on your turn, trying to get the pattern you wanted. And I soon found out that Orcish Knucklebones was cut throat and unforgiving.

"Whatcha doin'?" he snarled. He was up by probably twenty points, the rotten bastard. I just couldn't get the hang of how to throw those things properly.

"Just rolling this one again," I replied, holding up the one that came to rest up against a rock.

"Yuh can't do that," he snapped. "Yuh get one throw on yer turn."

"But this one was _cocked_," I protested. "It didn't land flat. It might have landed on the aurochs, which would give _me_ some freaking points for a change, you jerk."

"Cocked?" he snorted derisively. "My cock never touched it, and you ain't got one. Yuh don't get another throw."

"Well, good for you," I retorted petulantly. "You can tell the difference between males and females. I _mean_ the bone didn't land right, it was interfered with, and that means I get to throw it again."

"Don't know where yuh get yer ideas," he growled. "That ain't how it's played."

"And you played so often, you're an expert?" I goaded.

He arched his brows, then furrowed them menacingly. "Yuh know I didn't. Watched a lot, though. It wasn't just fucking in the barracks, yuh know. Now and then, there weren't cocks in asses, and some of the lads threw bones."

I shuddered, remembering the one time I _did_ see life in ye olde barracks. Made my gorge rise just thinking about it. Thank god that wasn't the way things went every single day.

"Sorry," I muttered. "It's just... sort of a rule from my world, I guess. If the die can't be counted, you throw it again so it _can_ be. I was hoping for eight points there. Sorry."

Relenting a little, he replied, "Don't matter. Just a game. Go ahead and throw it."

"No," I said firmly, shaking my head. "The rules are clear. If it can't be counted, you're shit out of luck. It's your turn." I scooped them up and handed them over.

A slight smile played around his mouth for a moment. "Rules can be changed."

I had to laugh. I was playing games with an Orc while a battle raged between our people right over our heads. Nodding, I said, "Yeah. The rules can change."

* * *

><p>Song lyric: "Loch Lomond," traditional, mid-18th century. (Forgive Tanith for not knowing when the song was written. That's crap her dad cared about, not her.)<p> 


	26. The Extremely Awkward Sex Talk

**The Extremely Awkward, Painfully Embarrassing, Slightly Arousing Sex Talk**

The dull throb of thunder over our heads was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of an explosion that shook the caverns and rattled my teeth. Women and children all around us started screaming and running for cover. Or at least diving into niches and hollows, anyway. We were already pretty much 'under cover,' technically speaking. I crawled into Ûnran's lap like a scared toddler. He held me tightly, the bones forgotten, the terrified people around us also forgotten. His breathing was faster than normal. Then the thudding started.

Near as I could figure, that must have been the sound of a battering ram. I thought of the scene from the movie, the large group of shield-bearing Orcs taking a tree trunk up the ramp and slamming it into the gates. I held onto Ûnran for dear life, wrapping my body around his like I was trying to get into his clothes. Like I couldn't get close enough to him.

"Wanna get out," he muttered. "They get down here and see me, I'm good as dead."

"I'm sure you could talk your way out of it," I replied without conviction.

He snorted. "Not likely. See me as a traitor, they would. I'm down here, not doin' nothin' to help. Not openin' gates or killin' whiteskins."

"Yeah, I suppose that might not work in your favor," I conceded. "I wouldn't go fixing that little problem, if I were you."

Chuckling humorlessly, he growled, "Done with that shit. This is... this is better."

"Being scared out of your mind is better?" I asked incredulously, peeking up at his face. He looked down at me.

"Nah. Bein' here... holdin' yuh...," he said softly, his voice a low rumble. "I do that shit, you wouldn't be in my lap now, would yuh?"

"Good point," I agreed with a quiet laugh. "It's weird, though. There's thousands of your friends up there causing all kinds of damage... and I don't want to be anywhere else but here..." I faltered at that point, leaving the words 'with you' hanging unspoken in the air. Biting my lip, I snuggled closer.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I pondered the situation. Under 'damaged goods' in the dictionary, there would likely be a picture of Ûnran. Why, then, was I so drawn to him? People who'd been through traumatic horrors tended to drag you down into their personal hell with them, didn't they? And he was an Orc, so his hell was probably a hundred times worse than a human's. So why wasn't the fact that he was an Orc sending me in the opposite direction, screaming my fool head off? And another thing, if I was so damned diligent about keeping the Precious secure, why was I letting his much more aggressive nature soften me up? Because I promise you, the guys who'd taken that approach in the past had been soundly reprimanded for it. What was so damn different about _him_?

And why, for Christ's sake, was I sitting on his lap, knowing that he'd likely get a boner from it? As was happening now. Dammit!

"Sorry," I muttered, and tried to slide off him. His hold tightened.

"Don't leave me, Tanith," he whispered desperately.

"I'm not leaving you, it's just... I suppose I woke up your friend, and I'm... it makes me nervous, I guess," I explained awkwardly. What it actually made me feel was disturbingly aroused. Sort of... I don't know, _proud_ that I had such a powerful affect on him. Who _doesn't_ get off on being considered sexy and desirable? You know, from the right person. Because it ain't much fun when the one who thinks you're sexy is a dirty old man in a trenchcoat, lurking in the alley.

"My... friend?"

"You know," I said. "Your... uh... down there." I jerked my chin in the general direction of his crotch, which was under my ass at the moment.

"Ah," he nodded. "My cock." Chuckling, he said, "Ain't never thought of it as a 'friend'."

I hadn't minded his foul mouth when I watched him in Isengard, and to be honest, it didn't really bother me now. Brother in the Navy, after all. Civilized English was practically a second language for him. Mom spent most of his visits while on leave cringing. It was sort of the way the Orcs talked, too. But Ûnran was hanging out with prudish Middle Earth people now, and it would probably win more friends and influence more people if he toned it down a bit.

"Um... can you... use a different word?" I asked timidly. "That's... pretty vulgar, really."

His brow furrowed. "It's what I was taught."

"I know," I said quickly. "And... between us... it's okay, but... with anyone else, I think... Well, you probably shouldn't talk about it at all, to be honest. These people are _way_ less open than _my_ people." Laughing, I stupidly went on, "You wouldn't _believe_ how much restraint I have to use around them. Boromir alone must have been targeted with 'cocksucker' a dozen times, but I redirected it into 'jerk' or something equally benign."

"Cock... _sucker_?" Ûnran said, fixing me with a perplexed look.

It was amazing how fast his mind worked. He went from bafflement at the unfamiliar word to contemplation of its meaning to 'hey, that sounds _cool_' in about three seconds.

"Where you come from... they suck cocks?" he asked hopefully.

Now my face was likely beet red. I could feel the heat coming off my chest, as well. "Um... yyeees," I replied slowly. "Sometimes. Some people like to... do that. I've never done it, but... I've _heard_ it's... nice. Likely for the guy more than the girl, though." I restrained myself from addressing man-on-man. If I thought for a moment he was actually gay, I might open that door of possibility for him, but he'd shown me he wasn't, no matter what went on with Zûrash.

Thankfully, he just leaned back against the rock wall and stared off into space, probably thinking about what it might feel like. Great. Now he'd be even _more_ obsessed with sex, like he was living his early teenage years a little late, discovering all the exciting avenues available. Nice. Late onset puberty. Just what I needed.

"So...," I said, "we'll call it your friend, shall we?"

"Call _you_ my friend," he observed. "Don't wanna get confused."

"Good point," I conceded. "Well... we could call it your sword, I suppose."

He shrugged and nodded, then grinned. "Long as yuh don't mind me polishin' it sometimes."

Lovely. He was already having fun with the euphamism. "Not at all," I smirked.

"What about cunt, then? That don't get talked about neither?"

"No," I said a little stiffly. Man, I hated that word! "That's an even _more_ vulgar word, and I don't like to hear it. So... how about we say..."

"Scabbard," he suggested slyly.

"Sure," I said, rolling my eyes. A chuckle rumbled through his chest.

"What about these?" he asked, pointing a clawed finger at me. I decided I really didn't want to know the full range of Isengard slang for boobs.

"Those are breasts," I said loftily, "but I like to refer to them as the Ladies. I think it inspires a more gentle approach." His laughter shook us both for a moment.

"Got another word for fuckin' too?" he asked with amusement.

"There are plenty of words for that," I replied. Frowning slightly, I sat up a bit so I could look at him. He saw the look on my face and his humor dissolved. "As long as we're... on the subject of words, there are a few things you should probably understand about... sex and... how it's... done... viewed... whatever."

His brow furrowed. "Sex?"

"You know... putting your sword in the scabbard, so to speak," I said awkwardly. He nodded his understanding. "Um... there are... several different ways of... doing that. When you were... in the breeding pits, that was... well, that was what we call rape. When at least one person... the sword or the scabbard, whichever... is unwilling. Both, in your case. That's what all these people are so freaked out about. They can't even _say_ the word 'rape.' Not even to each other. It's that bad."

Ûnran's face crumpled. Maybe he already believed what he'd done was an evil and horrid thing, and now he saw it in an even worse light.

"I know there wasn't anything you could do about it," I hastened to reassure him. "I _know_ that. I'm sorry I used that as an example. What was done to you was also rape. The one you killed, what he did... that was rape because _you_ didn't want it. I saw you attacked again after you left Isengard. It's an ugly, ugly thing. At least _you_ regret what you were forced to do. I didn't see much remorse in the ones who did it to _you_."

"Didn't see... nothin' else, then?" he asked tightly.

"No," I said, furrowing my brow as I looked at him askance. "Those were the only times, weren't they? Ûnran?"

He exhaled sharply through his blunt nose and looked away. "Good. Wouldn't want yuh to see..."

My throat constricted, and maybe my stomach lurched a little. One thing came quickly to mind, and I winced even thinking of it. "Murûk."

His jaw clenched and ground for several seconds before he forced himself to speak, and even then, he stared past me at nothing.

"Aye," he replied. "Cause... Zûrash weren't there. Left me, see." His voice began to break. "Nobody else gave a fuck. 'Less they was waitin' for a turn."

I tightened my grip on him, hugging him close. "It's okay, Ûnran," I whispered. "All that's over now."

"Hope he's up there," Ûnran growled in an undertone. "Hope he's gettin' a pike up his ass. See how it feels."

"I'm sure he is," I said as seriously as I could. Honestly, the idea of Murûk getting a little of what he dished out was grimly amusing.

"So... what was I doin' with Zûrash, then, eh? Weren't rape. Not really." His voice was unsteady, as if his hold on his emotions was about as firm as gelatin.

"That I would say... was probably fucking," I replied awkwardly. "Both parties willing, but... well... no real... feelings. I mean, you obviously cared a bit about each other. But it was mostly for pleasure, right? To feel something. And you didn't even have your head in the game, right? You were thinking of... someone else. It was just... for pleasure." I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip, hoping he wouldn't remind me _who_ he was thinking about. Being this close to him while talking about these things was awkward enough.

"That all there is, then?" he asked hollowly. "Just rapin' or fuckin'?"

"No," I said. "There's... another. Um... we call it... making love. It's when two people who... really care about each other... have sex. Like what the Pitmaster told you, about mates. Mates would make love. It's... well, it's for pleasure, but also for bonding. Getting closer. Showing how much you love someone else."

"I care about you," he said cautiously.

"I care about you, too," I replied just as carefully.

"So... if we had sex... we'd be makin' love, right?" he concluded. "Not rapin' or fuckin'?

"Yeah," I said in a small voice. "I think that's what we'd be doing."

"Ever done that before?"

I shook my head, having lost the power of speech seconds earlier. The conversation was doing very unsettling things to me, and I hoped the place stunk of fear too much for his nose to pick up anything else.

"Guess I ain't, either," he mused. "You'd like it, though, wouldn't yuh? Wouldn't kill yuh like rapin' or fuckin' would, eh?"

_Yeah, you would_.

Shut up, Floozy.

_Just admit it and get it over with. The kid's starving for love. Give it to him._

I'll do no such thing. Not here with a hundred women and children watching.

_For crying out loud, I didn't say have sex with him! Just __**tell**__ him!_

"No," I said, squeezing my eyes shut and clinging to him. My grip on the front of his shirt was white-knuckled. "It wouldn't kill me."

He sighed with what sounded like relief. "Good. 'S'what the Pitmaster said, too. Said them females in the pits... Dead things cause of what we was doin' to'em. Said that wasn't right. Hmph. Didn't stop'im from havin' hisself a little fun once in awhile, when Master weren't lookin', but... Said his mate'd have his balls off for sure if she knew 'bout it."

I laughed a little uncomfortably. "I'd sort of like to meet his mate some day. She sounds like a fine, upstanding lady."

"Seemed to me she'd make a lot of things out of his sack if she knew what he was up to," Ûnran chuckled.

"All deserved, I'm sure," I said, laughing a little more easily as it seemed the conversation was leaving the sex-with-Orcs station and heading into less threatening landscapes.

"So... what's love?" he asked. "Just... nice sex?"

I stood corrected. The train wasn't ready to move on yet, apparently. "Um, no, it's... more complicated than that." Wow, did _I_ ever feel like the wrong person to explain love to him. I'd never _been_ in love. Maybe had a crush or two as a teenager, but that's not quite the same as what was on the table now. What I was starting to _feel_ now.

"Just a word, ain't it?"

"Words have... meanings," I replied awkwardly. "Some describe complicated feelings."

"I don't understand."

"I guess it's probably what the Pitmaster said about mates," I replied, trying to take the easy way out. For some reason, this topic was worse than having to explain sex. "You know... making you feel like a whole person, completing you, can't live without him... her. That's... that's a pretty simple explanation of love, but it's... close enough."

"Then... that's what I feel, eh?" he said, tilting his head to look at me. I couldn't help it; I looked up into his yellow eyes. So strangely warm... "I love yuh."

Oh my god, girly flutters. The Teen had apparently given up entirely on Boromir and thrown her lot in with Ûnran.

"But... for makin' love... yuh gotta love me, too, eh?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "That would be required."

He snorted. "Ain't gonna happen, then."

I suddenly had that image in my head, of Frodo leaning over the Mirror of Galadriel in the movie (not what I actually saw happen, of course), when the Ring sort of came out of his shirt and was trying like hell to get in the water. God help me, my Precious was just as desperate to get to _Ûnran_. Like it wouldn't be happy until... Holy shit.

Taking a deep, calming breath, I said quietly, "Ûnran, I... I'm not sure what I feel. Like I said before, there are... issues. Things about... being with you that worry me."

"Yer afraid of my sword gettin' in yer scabbard and killin' yuh," he supplied bitterly.

"No, no... not that," I said with no little embarrassment. "It's not easy for me to just... say those words, you know? They're pretty important. There are consequences. Expectations. I'm not sure I'm ready for... what comes after."

Frowning, he searched my face for a moment, probably hoping to find some sense in there somewhere, because there wasn't any coming out of my mouth. "If yer afraid of me hurtin' yuh..."

"No," I repeated firmly. "I think... that is, I'm sure you wouldn't. It's just... There's a first time for everything, you know?"

"Yuh said yuh hadn't ever made love," he said hesitantly. "That what yuh mean?"

I shrugged awkwardly and tried to force casualness, like I talk about my sex life all the time with random Orcs I barely know. Even those I... sort of know more intimately than anyone ever. "Pretty much, yeah. I don't know what it's like for Orcs, but... women have a bit of... something that tears the first time they... have sex. Mine's never been so much as looked at funny. I've saved it. Because it's important to me to give that first time to someone... special."

"Tears?" he asked, surprised. "Don't it hurt, then?"

"I don't know," I said uncertainly. "Maybe. There's supposed to be a little blood, too."

"Then keep it away from me," he growled. "I don't wanna hurt yuh. I don't wanna... make yuh hate me."

"I don't think I could," I whispered, then hastily added, "hate you. I couldn't hate you, unless you... raped me. That would make me hate you."

"I'm an Orc," he snarled, and I could feel his tension rising and his grip on me tightening. He winced on the word too, as if acknowledging what he was had suddenly become a painful admission. "Even if I asked nice, even if yuh said yes, it'd _still_ be rape. It'd hurt yuh bad and make yuh weep, cause that's what fucking Orcs gets yuh."

"Maybe," I replied. "What would making love with Ûnran get me?"

He pondered the question for a bit, and I swear, I wondered who the hell was talking. Was that the frickin' Floozy? Maybe the Brat trying to get me in trouble? Wouldn't be the Teen; she was mooning over pictures of him up on her walls and dreaming about sweet kisses in the dark. And sending extremely annoying flutters through the lower regions. Or maybe that was the Floozy cranking up the 'gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight' to full volume. I knew the Singer was running scales because she had a Madeline Kahn-esque 'ah, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you' ready to launch the moment he made a move on the Precious.

Bitches. All of them.

"Don't know," he finally answered slowly. "That what the Pitmaster meant about bein' soft sometimes?"

"I think so," I replied a little breathlessly. Damn, it felt like I'd been holding my breath, waiting on him to say something, or the Harridans to shut up. One of the two. "I think... because you _don't_ want to hurt me... maybe... you wouldn't."

A thundering blast suddenly roared through the caverns, startling us out of our little private world and forcing us to rejoin the here and now. It wasn't another bomb, though. What sounded like the biggest, meanest, most threatening horn was being blown from the tower. The great horn of Helm's Deep. Was the end almost here? Because if they were blowing the horn, that meant the Rohirrim were riding out, and they would be meeting up with Gandalf and that Erkenbrand guy's forces, slamming the Uruk-hai between the hammer and the anvil. And a shitload of really pissed off trees.

Since the laws of physics prevented me from getting any closer to Ûnran, I just pressed my forehead against his neck and held on as tightly as I could.

After the horn was blown, it seemed only an hour passed before a messenger came down to the caverns to tell us that Rohan had the victory. I breathed a sigh of relief, not just for that, but also for the knowledge that I hadn't completely screwed everything up.

"Nay, do not rush out of hiding," the man warned, holding up his hands and shaking his head. The women had been about to knock his ass aside to get out the door. "There are many dead piled in the Deep that are being removed. The King bade me ease your worry only, not allow you to leave."

"But what of the men who are wounded?" a woman cried. "Who is seeing to them?" Several other women joined in, raising a hell of a ruckus. The guy was starting to look a little overwhelmed.

"Please, ladies!" he protested. "They are being gathered in the great hall for tending. When the Orcs are taken away..."

"We care not for Orc dead!" the elderly healer snapped. She stomped up to the poor bastard with her hands on her hips. Holy crap, she was winding up. Everybody hit the deck. "Think you we have not clapped eyes upon such things? We are shieldmaids and matrons of the Westfold! If it is not Orc corpses we have seen our share of, it is Dunlending and wild men who have fallen before the axes and swords of our men, aye, _and_ our women! Stand aside, youngling, and let us do _our_ duty, and see to the hurts of our brave men."

He shrank from her like a beaten puppy, and before you could say Bob's your uncle, he was being carried out of the caves on the crest of a wave of estrogen.

Chuckling, I slipped off Ûnran's lap and stood, stretching. Behind me, he gathered up his bones and stowed them securely away.

"Glad they didn't come after _me_ like that," he muttered.

"Well, you know," I said with a shrug, and took his hand. "You've got dimples. Extra points for that."

Grunting his amusement, he shook his head and followed me up to the exit. "Don't know when I might'uh shown'em. Weren't nothin' funny goin' on down here."

"True," I allowed. "What with the crusty old lady giving us the stink-eye all the time, babies crying at max decibels, you cheating your ass off at Knucklebones... nothing funny at all."

Startled, he stopped and turned on me. "Cheatin'? I didn't fuckin' _cheat_!" he roared.

His indignation was so damned serious, I lost it. Practically collapsed laughing. "I'm _kidding_!" I managed to squeak out as I hung off his arm to keep from hitting the floor.

I could tell he was trying hard to look annoyed. "Anybody cheatin', it was you," he snarled. "Cockin' yer bones on this'n that. Wantin' to throw four or five times on yer turn. Makin' up rules outta yer ass..."

"I only wanted to re-roll the one bone!" I snapped haughtily. "Any _gentleman_ would have allowed it. It's not like your score was _threatened_ in any way."

"Ain't a gentleman, eh? That so?" he said challengingly. "Well, _you_ ain't a lady, then."

Arching my eyebrows, I crossed my arms over my chest and tilted my head. "Not a lady? Do tell. How am I not a lady?"

"Yuh keep questionable company," he smirked.

"Do I? Is it that Orc you've seen me hanging out with?" I laughed. "Maybe I like consorting with that type of guy."

"Nah, I mean the Elf," he growled, trying hard not to laugh himself. "Get yuh in trouble, them Elves. Can't trust'em. Have yuh wearin' dresses if yuh ain't careful."

"Oh yeah," I said, as if the light dawned. "You're right about that. Those Elves... Jesus. They do like a swishy floor-length skirt, don't they?"

"Aye," he agreed with a nod. "Then there's the females..."

Well, neither one of us could keep going after he said that. We had to pretty much cling to one another for support or we'd be rolling on the floor. It felt so damn good to laugh after the high tension of the last however many hours... Until a throat cleared.

"What is the meaning of this?" a gruff voice thundered, echoing down the passageway. Sobering quickly and straightening up, we saw Théoden, Gandalf, Éomer, and Strider giving us bemused looks. But they were standing behind a middle-aged man with a stormy expression.

Okay, let's be honest, he was _pissed_. At his elbow was the crabby librarian healer, looking quite stern.

"Um...," I ventured, and pretty much ran out of witty repartee at that point.

"Tanith, Ûnran," Gandalf said, advancing to the rescue. "May I introduce you to the Lord of the Westfold, Erkenbrand. Of course, you have met Hildur, his lady-wife."

Oh shit.

* * *

><p>AN: Little bit of license. I couldn't find mention of a wife for Erkenbrand anywhere. Just thought I'd throw one at him. Everyone needs a formidable woman helping them run things, right? ;)


	27. Everything Comes Out in the Wash

**Everything Comes Out in the Wash**

"As you can see, husband," Hildur said, arching an eyebrow, "he is not what you have seen before."

My eyes darted back and forth between Gandalf and Strider, hoping one of them would throw me a bone or give me some cue on how to handle this. Théoden wasn't any help at all; he looked thoroughly done in, as if dropping into a recliner and putting his feet up for the remainder of the war was high on his wish list. Éomer was scowling at Ûnran like he wasn't quite finished; one more Orc killing would round out his day quite nicely. Oh look, there's one now!

Man, I hoped they'd seen the dimples. Really. That ought to change any opinion all by itself, right?

"Tame or not, the fact remains that the Enemy was behind these walls, _my_ walls, while I and my men..."

"For that, you must forgive me," Théoden finally said wearily, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I saw little harm in it. This one is not like the others."

Ûnran seemed to know this was one of those moments where the wrong word would reduce him to a smoking pile of jelly on the floor, and kept his head down and his mouth shut.

"So you have said," Erkenbrand snarled. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared us down, just _seething_. Then he snorted.

Oh my god, he had one of those thick, bushy mustaches that snuggle right up under the nose, and when he snorted, a bunch of hair around his nostrils just sort of waved hello. I had to bear down hard to keep from bursting out laughing.

"I can attest, though I do so grudgingly," Hildur supplied, and you could hear just _how_ grudgingly, "that this... creature made no threatening move upon any while he was among us." Shooting a narrow-eyed look at me, she pursed her lips. "I'll not speak to what mischief he _did_ get up to."

Sobering, I put my hands on my hips and glared at her. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Her nose went so far up in the air, a low-flying jetliner could have easily landed in it. "Not a moment passed that I did not see him... embracing you. It was disgusting."

I gave her the universal 'you did _not_ just go there' look and snapped, "For the _record_, _I_ was all up in _his_ business because I was frickin' _scared_ to death, and _so_ was he, and we're _friends_ so what the hell is _wrong_ with us turning to each other for support? Huh?"

"Were he a _man_..." she began, and I nearly blew a gasket.

"He _is_ a man... sort of!" I cried a little clumsily. Thank goodness I faltered on that, because it gave me the necessary moment to pull my shit together. "I'm sorry," I said a bit more calmly. "I'm just a little... He isn't..." I looked pleadingly at Gandalf, hoping for another save.

"As I informed you earlier, Erkenbrand," the wizard said evenly, "you needn't fear this one. He has proved himself worthy of Tanith's trust many times over. I daresay your good wife cannot complain of his behavior toward your people while his own were engaged above."

"What of the others, then?" the stern horselord snarled. "Will _they_ be as 'tame' as this one?"

"We cannot know this until we have seen them," Théoden offered. "It is telling enough that they surrendered, rather than fight to the death as their fellows had done."

"Um... excuse me. what?" I interjected, holding up a finger. "Did you just say... others?"

"Yes," Strider replied. "A handful of Orcs gave themselves up rather than meet the fate of their fellows. They are under guard among a large number of Dunlendings who also lowered their swords and begged mercy." He briefly met Théoden's eyes before continuing, and I wasn't so sure that there wasn't an argument over this earlier, judging by the volumes spoken in that moment. "The fate of those Orcs rests upon one thing only, and that is how _this_ one spent his time among the women and children of the Westfold while a battle raged above."

"Didn't do nothin'," Ûnran snarled. "Didn't even _wanna_ do nothin'." His yellow eyes were darting from one person to another, and I realized he desperately wanted them to believe that. Because now we knew it wasn't just for _his_ sake that they believe it.

"It's true," I jumped in. "He was a perfect gentleman."

The healer sighed, and seemed to be forcing herself to speak. "He did no worse than... smell badly," she conceded, and that startled me. And not only because the Iron Maiden just defended him. I looked back at him, and his head was hanging again.

What, I'd been around him so long, I couldn't even _smell_ him anymore? Hell, I'd been on his lap with my face... Narrowing my eyes, I leaned over and took a tentative sniff. Okay, now I could smell him. He was pretty sweaty, rather grungy, but... sort of... animally. Like a horse that's been ridden hard. And maybe rolled in the dirt a bit. Honestly, I'd been in close proximity to men who disdained baths for weeks at a time, and by comparison, Ûnran wasn't so bad. I wouldn't discourage him from taking a bath, of course, but...

"Well," I said, "trust me, I've smelled worse. The ones from Moria had a stench to remember, I assure you."

Erkenbrand glared at Ûnran as if the Orc had done something unforgiveable... which, by breathing, I suppose he had. "You watched closely, wife? You did not take your eyes off it?"

"Aye," she nodded. "He took particular interest in a babe held by one of the young girls, but apart from that..."

"What sort of interest?" the horselord growled, putting a hand to his sword hilt.

I raised my eyebrows and gave her a challenging look. Say it, old lady. You know he wasn't looking at that little girl like she might be tasty with a side of fries.

Hildur sighed. I could tell that she was the sort of woman who believed in honesty, even if it sucked and she didn't want to say it. "He'd never seen a baby," she said quickly and a little snippily. "According to _her_, he was no older than the infant was, and found it... fascinating."

For the first time since meeting him, Erkenbrand looked shocked. Struck speechless. Mouth agape and everything. I might have laughed, if the situation wasn't so damn serious.

"That is so," Strider said thoughtfully. "I recall it now. You told of his birth, not long after your coming. That was... mere months ago."

"Something like five," I hedged carefully, darting a look at Hildur. Sooner or later, my story wasn't going to add up with what Strider seemed bent on sharing. I also wondered how much of the doin's up in Isengard had been discussed with the grizzly old man. Judging by the sudden fury, I hazarded a guess that _all_ of it was told.

"You would have me spare these despicable creatures," Erkenbrand hissed through clenched teeth. "It is an insult, an _outrage_. They have taken many lives over the past days, the past _years_. Destroyed villages and violated the innocent, then I learn they have carried off maids of Rohan for..." He stopped himself and winced, grinding his jaw. Taking a deep breath, Erkenbrand growled, "They are undeserving of mercy _or _pity."

"Sorry," Ûnran muttered brokenly. His shoulders were shaking and he couldn't raise his head, but you didn't have to see his face to know he was crying. "S-sorry."

About all I had to offer was a hand-hold, and I tried to take his. He gently twisted out of my grip and tucked his hands into his armpits.

"Yet such has been given," Théoden said quietly. "And more. You agreed to show mercy to those men who were deceived by Saruman. Were the Orcs not doubly deceived? The men of Dunland have ever been our rivals, have harbored long years of anger for wrongs long forgot. These Orcs of Saruman's making have not the purpose or the cause of their allies. They only know what was told to them _by Saruman_. Look at this one; he has been gifted with a vision of how Men live, and not those of Dunland who so despise us. Would a Dunlending apologize for a wrong he did not commit? For that is what Ûnran has done. It is _Saruman_ who bred them, _Saruman_ who taught them, _Saruman_ who unleashed them." Taking a deep breath and grimacing, the king continued, "I discovered far worse foulness in a man I called friend, than in the heart of _this Orc_."

"My king," Erkenbrand said tightly, "you... speak wisdom, as ever you have done. I will heed your words. But I will not set those... creatures loose upon my lands once more. Mercy I will show, if it is your will, but they shall be kept under guard. I do not trust them, nor _shall_ I in the span of a heartbeat, when no proof has been given _by them_ before _my_ eyes."

"Most prudent," Théoden agreed. "Ûnran was given a gift I doubt any others received. While we may be counseled to show mercy by virtue of his example, we would be fools to trust without just cause."

Erkenbrand nodded stiffly, then turned and strode away. Théoden and Éomer trailed along after him. Hildur turned to me with one of her apparently patented sniffy looks.

"Worse and more foul may be the vermin of Moria, but I'll not have something like him dirtying up my home. He'll go down to the laundry, away from the men. If you please, lord Aragorn." Her nose twitched and her lips pursed a bit more as she looked at me. "I believe _you_ could stand a wash as well."

"Oh honey, I'd be glad to," I said, almost wilting with relief. "Where is the bath house?"

"Come," she said, spinning on her heel and marching off. Grabbing Ûnran's elbow, I hurried after her swift strides.

Badly as I wanted to meet these other Uruk-hai, there are some things that speak louder than noble causes, and one of those is 'hot bath.'

Strider obediently hastened after us, for which I was grateful. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to prance an Orc out into the open in this place after the battle. When we emerged from the passageway leading down to the caverns, I almost went blind from the sudden sunlight. Then I wished I had. There were, indeed, bodies everywhere. Men were detailed to haul them away in wagons, but there were just so damn many it wasn't funny.

Bodies I might have been able to handle. It was the random _pieces_ that made me irretrievably queasy.

I heard Ûnran's sharp intake of breath, then low-grade rumbling growl. Maybe he didn't follow in their footsteps anymore, but they were still his people. It must have been hard to see them broken in pieces all over the place without feeling a _little_ miffed about it.

The bath house was, apparently, the world's most popular hang-out. There were hundreds of half-naked men lined up out the door, waiting for their turn. I resigned myself to having a tub with second or third-hand icy cold water, if I was lucky enough to get anything. But Hildur led us further on down to another building without anyone around it.

"This is the laundry," she explained as she opened the door for us. "It is not so well equipped, but there is soap and the water is plentiful, if somewhat cool at this time of year. And he will not be among the men," she added pointedly. "Lord Aragorn, I trust you will manage. Tanith, come."

Leaving the men... malefolk to themselves, she directed me through what looked like the back door to the keep itself. "Despite the company you keep," she said, "you may bathe yourself in my private chambers."

"Thank you," I said as gratefully as I could. It happened so fast I barely had a chance to fully register it, but I was separated from Ûnran. A thread of worry ran through me, like somehow Strider wouldn't be able to protect him sufficiently without me there. "But... maybe I should be in the laundry too. In case Strider needs a hand or something."

Her brow furrowed and lips pursed. Ah crap. "In spite of your apparent... preferences, you still have the bearing and manner of a lady. I'll not have you exposing yourself to such... things."

"Okay, I didn't mean I wanted to stand there and watch him scrub his naughty bits," I snapped. "I just want to be on hand. In the next room. In case... a whole bunch of Riders come around, wanting to give him a pounding for the hell of it."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "If such sport is sought, you would present a poor barrier against it." Taking a deep breath, she seemed to soften a little. "In truth, the women of the Westfold will not allow such a thing."

"Really?" I asked incredulously. "You're serious?"

"I am. Your words were heard, and his manner was noted. As was your... ease with him." It was obvious this wasn't easy for her to say. "We are not blinded by hate, no matter what you may think. We have known the occasional Dunlending who did not cut our throats or burn our holdings. Perhaps we may know... the occasional Orc who will not do this either."

"I hope that's true," I said softly. "Not just Ûnran but... those others. I hope... I just really hope."

"I'll lay out clothing for you," she said briskly, as if the conversation was getting way too intimate for her tastes. "I see you have a preference for trousers, so that is what you shall have. The state of your Orc friend's clothing is pitiful; I will find something suitable for him, as well."

"Thank you, Hildur," I said, and this time I really meant it.

* * *

><p>When I returned to the laundry building, all squeaky clean and in good spirits, Ûnran was still deeply ensconced with a very crabby Ranger, his thick hair sudsy and probably nowhere close to being sufficiently cleaned. And there was a lot of bitching and moaning going on, too.<p>

"Stay _still_," Strider huffed, jerking the Orc's head straight as he worked out a large tangle with a sharpened stick. Ûnran sat chest-deep in a huge washtub, head slightly bowed, and a murderous glare in his eyes. I leaned against the doorframe and shook my head.

"Are you nearly finished, or just getting started?"

Startled, Strider looked up at me, as did Ûnran. "You should not be here," the Ranger admonished. "Tis unseemly."

"Probably," I allowed with a smirk, then sobered. "What about Gimli? Or Boromir? Hell, Legolas too, I suppose. I haven't seen any of them. Are they okay?"

"Yes, all are well," Strider replied, digging once more into Ûnran's dreadlocks. "Likely waiting their turns at the bath house. I may refill this tub when Ûnran is finished. I would not want to miss Gandalf's departure for Isengard."

"I'm going too," I informed him. "Don't you dare try to sneak out without me. I mean it."

"I expected as much," he said with a slight smile.

"No," Ûnran said, and in his sudden agitation, he stood straight up. Oh good lord. I quickly looked away, blushing fiercely. "You can't, Tanith. Don't go there. Master'll have you in the pits. Don't go."

"_Sit_, Ûnran," Strider said desperately, pulling on the Orc's wrist. Reluctantly, he obeyed. "It is a parley," the Ranger explained, "not a battle. There will be several of us accompanying Gandalf, including Théoden King. I believe it was intended for you both to come, in any case."

"Really?" I asked. Boy, everyone was dropping bombshells on me today. "Any particular reason? Not that I'm complaining."

"I am certain Gandalf has his reasons," Strider replied cryptically.

"Is _this_ where you've disappeared to?"

Startled, I turned, and there was Boromir striding into the laundry room, looking about as unkempt and filthy as he possibly could. Evidently the line was _really_ long.

"Are you acting as attendant?" Boromir asked me, raising a rather provocative eyebrow.

"Would you like me to draw your bath, sire?" I simpered sarcastically, then stuck out my tongue.

Looking me up and down for a moment, he smirked. "It would seem you found your own accommodations, and quickly. If there is another tub, your assistance would be appreciated."

Grumbling under my breath, I lurched off the wall I was leaning against and dragged myself across the room. There was, actually, a slightly smaller tub on the other end, and I could see where the water was coming from. The laundry, like the bath house, was built up against the mountain, and a burbling little waterfall fell into a stone basin in the back wall, kind of like an ever-running water faucet. Grabbing a bucket, I started filling the tub. Thankfully, the water was ridiculously frigid. That oughta take a few inches off his manly pride.

"The water may be heated by fire," Strider suggested, pointing to a stack of logs. I had a vision of Bugs Bunny being coaxed into the stew pot by Yosemite Sam, and wondered if Boromir would get wise to me if I chopped carrots into the water.

While I hauled buckets, Boromir did the fire job, and soon had a nice, cozy little smolder going under the tub. I realized Ûnran was similarly blessed with lukewarm water by the same method. When I had the tub more than half filled, Boromir proceeded to strip off his armor as if I wasn't in the room.

Land o' Goshen! What the _hell_? Blushing fiercely, I kept my head down and tried to hide my eyes behind the curtain of my hair and hurry the tub filling, but it was too late. The man dropped all sorts of trou' on the floor then stepped into the tub. I swear to god, he _purposely_ splashed water on himself _standing up_ to make damn sure I didn't miss a single ripple of his muscular ass in the process.

I don't know what the hell he was thinking. Maybe a glimpse of his glistening buttocks might make me do a double-take, say 'heeeeey!,' and shove Ûnran to the side? Like a mature woman such as myself could be easily taken in by a hot ass? Look, buddy, in the hot ass department, I think Ûnran's got it going on _plenty_ enough for my tastes, thank you very much.

Don't you _even_ start with me, Floozy.

_It's true and you know it._

I don't want to talk about it.

_More than a hot ass on that Orc._

Shut the hell up!

_I believe I've already mentioned the impressive wedding tackle..._

Don't remind me!

_I think he just did._

Aarrrrrgh!

I could _not_ get out of the laundry room-cum-bath house of nightmares fast enough. Dropping like a sack of potatoes on a bench outside, I rubbed my face roughly. The thoughts that were racing through my mind were anything but decent. Damn that Floozy. And damn that Ûnran. What was happening to me? I'd done just fine since puberty without having a meltdown like this over a guy. He's an _Orc_, for crying out loud! Vicious, brutal, nasty, smelly, evil _Orc_.

Wasn't he?

_He is, and he isn't._

That doesn't make sense.

_Maybe not. Most things don't._

He said he loves me. Does he even know what it means?

_Do you?_

Of course I do! I think... maybe...

_You don't. It's something you figure out. Maybe he's just quicker at figuring it out. And admitting it._

I'm sure if I was in love with him, I'd admit it.

_Would you?_

I realized with shame that I couldn't. Nothing carried the kind of weight an admission like that did. If I told him I loved him, _assuming it was true_, he'd expect... And I just wasn't ready for that.

_So tell him you're not ready._

You know, Floozy, I'm really not in the mood for your wheedling.

_I'm not the Floozy. I'm __**you**__._

Jumping up off the bench, I stomped away from the laundry, as if that would leave those thoughts behind. It took some effort to keep from leaving the area entirely. I wanted to be there when Ûnran came out, make sure he was okay.

_Find out how he smells when he's clean._

Shut up!

While I stood there hugging myself, fearing one more bit of annoying commentary from the Harridans, along comes Legolas to make it all so much better. He wasn't even coming from the bath house, but a different direction entirely. The men who fought in the battle all looked like they'd rolled in mud all night, but Legolas was just as untouched by the elements as ever.

Even his _hair_ was smooth and unruffled. Fucker.

"How fare you, Tanith?" he asked a little stiffly.

"Okay, I guess," I replied, scuffing the toe of my boot on the ground. "Glad you made it. I'm sure it was rough up here last night. Loud party. Kept the whole neighborhood up."

"Yes, it was quite... rough," he agreed. "Where is your... friend?"

I jerked my head back toward the laundry. "Getting groomed. Strider's up to his elbows in his hair. I thought it best if I stayed out of it. I'm sure it'll come to blows pretty soon."

A look of disgust passed over the Elf's face, but he didn't say anything.

Chuckling a bit, I went on, "Boromir's in there, too. Mooned me good and proper. Such a jerk."

"Mooned you?" Legolas said, momentarily wrong-footed.

Sighing, I said, "Dropped his pants and showed me his behind. I _suspect_ he was giving me the comparison. Jealous man, that Boromir." I shook my head and laughed.

"He is," Legolas said seriously, and I stopped laughing. "Though he speaks harshly and without thought at times, I believe such things mask a softer opinion. Your... friendship with the Orc... offends him deeply. He would have your gaze turned in his direction, I am certain."

"Legolas," I said as carefully as I could, "I understand what you're saying. He's damn lousy at hiding things. But I just have _no interest_ in him. None."

"Yet he has interest in _you_," the Elf said sternly. "And you disdain him. He is a proud man. Such slights mock him, moreso given the one to whom you show preference."

"What, I can't have _friends_ now?" I snapped.

"If that... thing is only a 'friend' to you, then _I_ am an Orc!" he retorted. "We have all seen the way he looks at you, and you do not discourage such fawning devotion. You even allow his embrace, as if he were no different from a man!"

"He _isn't_ that different!" I snarled, then lowered my voice to a growl. "He's got _everything_ a man has. _Trust_ me."

"So it is true?" he hissed, looking like he was about to hurl. "You _did_ lie with him in the forest, before we arrived?"

Wait a second, what? "When you say 'lie with,' are you implying...?" I began uncertainly.

"You know _exactly_ what I mean," he snapped. "Not even _you_ are so naïve that you do not understand _that_ much."

Is that what they _all_ believed? It couldn't be. As quick to freak out as all of them were, if they thought, even _suspected_, that shenanigans had taken place, Ûnran would be dead. There'd be no tolerance, would there? He would've been carved like a Thanksgiving turkey within minutes.

"Okay, Legolas," I said as calmly as I could, though inside I was both flying apart with indignant rage and cowering in the corner like a chastised child, "I'm sure you're like most guys who get dirty thoughts in their heads and just _can't_ let them go, no matter what evidence is presented to the contrary. I'll say this _once_, then I'm absolutely _done_ with your ass." I punched his chest with one finger hard enough to make him take a step back. "What I do or _don't_ do is _none of your fucking business_, and I'll thank you to keep your mouth _shut_ about things you have no proof of. We have a word for little shits that run around spreading rumors without a shred of evidence, and that's _liar_."

Glaring hard at his stunned expression, I marched off in what could only be described as a snit. Maybe I even flounced. I was just _furious_! I thought I'd be spending all my time in Middle Earth trying to protect my hide, not my _reputation_! Hell, I was mad enough to have at Ûnran with both hands, just to send Legolas into apoplexy.

_He wouldn't stop you_.

Oh god, not you again.

_Just saying._


	28. The Bastard Sons of Rohan

**The Bastard Sons of Rohan**

My extremely pissed off feet took me across the courtyard to a large gathering of folks. Among them, I recognized Gandalf, standing out like a bright white light in the middle of a sea of brown and green. The Rohirrim soldiers who hadn't taken a break and choked the bath house were all here, covered in mud and blood, standing at attention with spears pointed at another group who looked even worse off.

By the orders being shouted, it sounded like the scruffy-looking guys were being detailed to help with repairs on the walls and gates. Then Gandalf, Théoden, and Erkenbrand detached themselves from the crowd, leaving the rest of the fun to their subordinates, and headed in my general direction.

"Ah, Tanith," Gandalf said warmly. "I am glad you're here. Come. Let us see what sort of Orcs we have captured, shall we?"

I blinked stupidly as I fell into step with them. Right. He sounded like he was inviting me to check the lobster traps or something.

Off in a corner under heavy guard – there must have been twenty of them, I swear – sat five very sullen, crabby-looking Uruk-hai. They looked like a grunge band whose van broke down on the side of the highway.

They'd been disarmed and their wrists were bound. Three of them had taken some pretty serious wounds but were stoically ignoring them. In fact, one of the three was clearly on the edge, actually sitting in a puddle of his own blood, swaying unsteadily. Nobody had seen to their injuries, nobody had even given them water.

Stopping a few yards away, I turned to Théoden, who seemed the most sympathetic of the two horselords, and asked, "Is it too much to ask for a healer to have a look at them?"

He sighed. "None of them will come near, and I can hardly blame them. These are not like Ûnran."

"Yeah, well, there's no chance of them _being_ like Ûnran if they're left like this." Looking them over, I felt completely at a loss. Treating battlefield injuries was not my area of expertise. And these guys... wow. They had the look of wild animals caught in a trap, and if you came anywhere near them, even to free them, they'd bite your head off.

"Can you at least... Water. At least give them that," I pleaded.

"Will _you_ give it to them?" one of the guards snapped. "Have you such courage in your heart that you will come close enough to do so?"

I felt all eyes on me, including the yellow ones on the ground. Looking desperately at Théoden, I said, "But... they're _soldiers_. They... they did what they were ordered to do. You _know_ that. Has anyone even _talked_ to them?"

"Their words are foul," the same guard, who appeared to have taken on the role of spokesman, replied. "They only speak their own tongue. I doubt they know what we are saying."

"Well, maybe they think it's safer that way," I snapped, looking at them again. One of the five was staring at me, his head cocked to the side. He looked... well, baffled. Not like he didn't understand what was being said, but as if he couldn't figure out what the hell _my_ deal was.

Grabbing onto that, I took a step closer, and of course the testosterone level shot through the roof. The guards also advanced, pointing spears at me, at the Orcs, at the sky, at each other... just anything and everything within a hundred yard radius.

"Lady, do not approach the beasts," the guard warned. "They cannot be trusted."

"You're giving them no reason to trust _us_," I hissed. "Now step back, all of you."

"Tanith, take care," Théoden warned. "They had not Ûnran's gift."

"I'm well aware of that," I said tightly. "Someone get me a bucket of water. These guys need a drink, and _I'll_ give it to them, since you're all such nancies."

Thank god none of them knew what _that_ meant. The guard nodded to one of the grunts, who went to a nearby horse trough and filled a bucket. Nice. You guys are just _so_ thoughtful. He handed it to me with a ladle and a smirk. I gave him a withering look.

Armed with a bucket of not-so-clean-but-at-least-cold water and wilting resolve, I slowly approached the Orcs. That one still had his eyes on me, but now the other four were looking as well, seemingly transfixed by the bucket and the promise it held. They began to stir, turning toward me, and that caused the guards to flip a shit all over again.

"Hey!" I snapped, halting and glaring at them. "Chill, all right? I got this."

Turning back to the Orcs, I rolled my eyes angrily and muttered, "Jesus, give them a spear, it's like a gigantic dick they have to wave around."

All five of the Orcs suddenly erupted in laughter, even the one bleeding out on the ground. I tried to hide my own smile, especially when the guards all exchanged bewildered glances. Apparently, their hearing wasn't as good as the Orcs'.

Ice effectively broken, I knelt near them and dipped the ladle into the bucket, then offered it to the bleeder. Face twitching from the pain he was trying very hard not to show, he took it and drank gratefully. I gave each one a ladle full, then went round again a few times until they waved me off. Then I sat back down.

"So," I said to the bleeder, "where are you hurt?"

He all but snarled at me, his lips curled back from rather rotten teeth. I was a little startled, because Ûnran's weren't so bad. They were a bit yellow, but no worse than a large dog's, really. Maybe this one was older? Or not as troubled by personal hygiene issues as Ûnran?

"Ooookay," I said, and turned to the one who'd been staring at me the whole time. "Maybe _you'll_ tell me. Is it bad? Because usually when the blood's on the _outside_, that's pretty bad."

He narrowed his eyes and snorted. "Leave us."

"Ah!" I said with a smile. "You _do_ understand."

"'Course we understand," he snarled in an undertone. "Now go."

Trying a different tack, I ventured, "So why did you surrender? You could have fought until they killed you. Something must have been going through your head. What was it?"

The silence hung for several minutes, I swear. He was in _no_ mood for idle chatter, obviously. Just glared at me like I'd led the charge out the doors. The longer he stared at me, the more nervous I got, then all of a sudden he jerked his head up, eyes focused past me. He looked completely shocked.

I had to suppress a smile: I had a feeling I knew what was coming up on my rear. Uh... so to speak.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Ûnran walking toward us with Boromir. While they didn't look like old friends, there was a steady stream of chatter between them. Maybe they had some kind of bonding moment in the laundry room. But wow, _Ûnran_. He was wearing a simple homespun tunic and brown trousers, along with a pair of soft leather boots, and his hair was more or less brushed back all in the same direction for a change. A bunch of it was even pulled into a top knot that laid flat over the top of his head. His reddish brown skin was almost shiny, he was so clean.

_Looks completely hot, doesn't he?_

I won't even dignify that with an answer, Floozy.

_Wonder what he smells like? Axe for Orcs?_

Shut _up_!

Standing, I brushed off my new pants and went to greet them, stepping outside the ring of substitute phalluses.

"Adding to your collection, Tanith?" Boromir smirked.

"I do like them dark and pissy," I snarled. "Don't you have something important to do, like get ready for the most entertaining visit we've had since Moria?"

Rolling his eyes, he shook his head. "I am not looking forward to spending _any_ time in Isengard, nor should you be," he replied, then went to chat with Théoden and Erkenbrand. The three of them put their heads together, frequently looking over at the Uruk-hai sitting in a stupefied huddle. All five of them were now watching Ûnran as if they'd never seen anything quite like him.

"You clean up good," I commented.

"Head's killin' me," he muttered. "Don't know what the fuck gettin' tangles out means, except it hurts." Leaning down slightly and sniffing, he grinned. "Yuh smell good. _Real_ good."

"If you say good enough to eat...," I warned, holding a finger up and pursing my lips in mock indignation.

"Eatcha right up," he rumbled, licking his sharp teeth... which were paler than usual, so he must have been at them with the Middle Earth equivalent of a toothbrush.

Well, I probably turned six shades of red. It didn't help that _he_ smelled really good. Sort of like... okay, this is probably gross to some people, but he reminded me of my dog after a really good bath. Not the wet dog smell, but after he dried off and was all fluffy and you just wanted to bury your face in his fur and snuggle up... Comparing him even in a left-handed way to Snickers kind of associated Ûnran with homey feelings, too. Comfort and warmth. Belonging. Not some bizarro furry fetish or anything.

Trying to suppress a grin and failing, I lightly punched him in the arm. "Be a good boy, now. You have to make a good impression. Show them what their options are. Talk them in off the ledge. They're a pretty sullen bunch, and they won't talk to me."

He sobered and glanced over. "Ain't nobody seen to that one?"

Huffing angrily, I shook my head. "No. I think they're afraid he'll bite or something. Hell, I would too, if I was dying slowly and nobody gave a shit. Why don't you see if you can... I don't know, talk some sense into them, and I'll see if Hildur has a little compassion left over."

Ûnran snorted indelicately. "Waste'uh time, that. Likely stand there watchin'im die with a smile on'er face."

"It's worth a shot," I said with a shrug, and patted his shoulder. "Just... see what you can do. They're lost and don't know what to do with themselves. I can't imagine that surrender was part of your training."

"No, it wasn't," he agreed. Hesitating for a moment, he leaned down a bit and whispered, "Don't leave without me, Tanith."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I replied with a smile, and kissed his cheek.

What... the... _hell_... _FLOOZY!_

_Hee hee hee..._

Blushing furiously, I turned away from his startled face and hurried off to the keep like the hounds of hell were on my tail.

* * *

><p>It probably took ten minutes of panic and worry to wear me out enough to think clearly.<p>

I kissed an Orc. In front of a courtyard full of armed men who had spent the entire night killing Orcs. And in front of a group of Orc prisoners who were probably leering at Ûnran and patting him on the back, making all kinds of guy remarks about it. Hell, in front of Gandalf who, tolerant as he seemed to be, probably drew the line at Orc snogging.

Pity Legolas wasn't there. I could just imagine what shade of ocher his vomit would take on.

Oh god, Erkenbrand. Just imagining what _he_ might say made me sick to my stomach. The whole bunch of them were probably dead now, including Ûnran.

Thinking about Ûnran nearly made me dissolve in a puddle. Good lord, what must he be thinking? Probably that I was a tremendous flirt. Or that I just made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Jesus, isn't that what always happened in the movies? The two... uh... okay, _lovers_ finally overcome whatever weird-ass trauma they were having about being together, they kiss, then it's all kinds of humping and whumping and _hello, sailor_... clothes flying in all directions, legs up in the air, ass pistoning ferociously, sweaty skin, clawing backsides...

Dear god, I was making myself hot. Collapsing onto a bench in the cool interior of the keep, I shook my head and fanned myself, trying to get those images out of my mind.

Nope. Thoroughly entrenched. Bastards weren't retreating. _Dammit!_

While it wasn't true I'd never been kissed, there was a definite milestone after which no lip action occurred. That would be about college, when dating reached a whole new level of intimacy. Before high school graduation, my little community of peers maybe went as far as second base on a date. It was okay if the guy went home with a fond memory of sweet handfuls of boobs and nothing else. Once I hit college in a big city, everything escalated. The boys now expected a man's share from their dates, and if you didn't pony up, well... I knew a few young women who had to press charges. It just seemed... safer, keeping them all at bay without exception. Even when I came to realize later on that those few asshats _were_ the exceptions.

"Are you unwell, Tanith?"

Startled, I looked up, and thank god it was Hildur.

"Yes," I said, and lurched to my feet a little unsteadily. "Look, I know you're... I know Orcs kind of make you want to barf, but there's one out there who's bleeding to death and in a lot of pain. Is there anything you or anyone else is willing to do for him?"

She looked surprised by the rushed question, and narrowed her eyes. "Such as what?"

"Such as, I don't know, show a little pity, maybe?" I said, exasperated. "He's a prisoner of war. If a Dunlending were having a time of it taking his next breath, you'd be all over that, wouldn't you? Please, they surrendered. That's not something they do. There must be something... I don't know, some sort of difference in them to have done that. Maybe there's hope for them. But there _won't_ be any if we don't give them something to latch onto. Compassion, for instance. Teach them _that_ first. _Please_."

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. "I was told, you know," she said coldly. "What became of the women here. My husband saw to it that I was made aware. And you ask of me..."

"All the more reason," I said urgently. "_They_ didn't issue the orders. They just carried them out, not even knowing what they were doing was wrong." Casting about desperately, I remembered the men out in the courtyard and hurried on. "What about the Dunlendings your husband just reprieved, huh? You can't tell me they didn't assault women left and right in this region. _They_ knew what they were doing was wrong, did it anyway, and your husband set them free. Don't you remember what I said? The Uruk-hai were _blank slates_. They could have been _anything_. _Saruman_ made them what they are."

"They are still _Orcs_," she spat angrily.

"They're also _Rohirrim_," I snarled. "Their mothers are your sisters, cousins, daughters. They had no control over _that_, either."

The completely shocked look on her face told me I may have stepped over the line with _that_ comment, but dammit, it was _true_. Still, a little backpedaling might not be amiss.

"I'm sorry," I said, a little scared of what she might say. "That was out of line."

"Yes, it was _completely_ out of line," she agreed. "But... it was true also." Rubbing her forehead shakily, she sat down on the bench I'd vacated earlier. "When I was told of Saruman's deeds, I wept. So many women gone missing over the years, and no news... No idea of what became of them. I confess, I wanted to slay your Ûnran with my own hands, so aggrieved was I."

I sank onto the bench beside her. "I can imagine. The one who deserves a good slaying is too far away. Ûnran is conveniently close by. I don't blame you, really."

"Yet he showed no hint of malice toward any," she went on. "I heard you speaking with him, even before I knew the truth of his making. I could not believe such feelings... of an _Orc_. When my husband took me aside and told me the dread truth, I realized where it came from, and I did not want to face..." She looked at me with a forlorn expression on her face and whispered, "It came from _us_."

Nodding, I reached out and took her hand. "I remember when he was born. I mean, what he said about what it was like to just... open his eyes and not know _anything_. His first thoughts were... confusion. He saw an Orc getting beaten to death, and wondered why they were doing it, and why the other Orcs like that one weren't trying to defend him. Things like sympathy and compassion weren't really nurtured too much, but the fact is that he _had _it. It was _there_. Maybe for these guys, it's there too. It just needs... encouragement to come out."

"And examples shown," she mused.

"Yeah," I agreed.

Drawing a deep breath through her nose, Hildur stood and smoothed her skirts. "Well, now. I believe we have stood idle long enough. Show me this Orc, and I shall see what must be done."

I didn't even try to hide my smile as I rose off the bench. While I felt the urge to give her a big hug, I restrained myself. Still the Iron Maiden, her haughty look kept me at a distance. Fine with me, old lady. I know where your heart is. Grinning to myself, I followed her outside to the courtyard.

* * *

><p>"Stand aside," Hildur snapped, pushing men-at-arms out of her way as she advanced on the Orcish huddle. Ûnran was sitting with them and looked over his shoulder with surprise when he heard her determined approach. I trailed along behind her and found it damn near impossible to look him in the face. He seemed just as reluctant to look at me.<p>

I had to admire the woman when she strode fearlessly up to the Orcs and crouched down beside the bleeder. He was so startled by her boldness, he couldn't even look at her.

"Here now, show me your wound. Be quick about it, unless you wish to die a coward's death!" The Uruk snarled at her and probably would have stubbornly refused if she hadn't cuffed him upside the head. "None of that!"

The leader growled and made to rise up in his defense, but Ûnran was faster, and pushed the Uruk back with a barked warning. The other three seemed to rethink any attempt at defending the wounded Orc, and scooted back away from ground zero.

Reluctantly, the wounded one unwrapped his arm from his side and showed the sword cut through his flimsy metal breastplate, and the deep gash underneath. There was so much blood, still freshly seeping from the wound, that I had to turn away or puke.

"This is no place for such an injury," Hildur said in a clipped tone. Rising, she turned toward Erkenbrand and started issuing orders. "Send litter bearers at once. He is to be brought into the keep with the other grievously wounded."

"Wife!" Erkenbrand blustered, approaching her. "You cannot mean..."

"What have you done with the Dunlendings who were wounded, husband?" she snapped in a challenging tone.

Startled, he glanced around but nobody was willing to jump in and help him. Sorry dude, she's _your_ wife.

"They are in the keep," he muttered uncertainly.

"Indeed they are," she said rather sniffily. "These, also, are soldiers who have surrendered. They are owed the same courtesy."

As if echoing our earlier conversation, Erkenbrand hissed, "They are _Orcs_, wife."

"Aye," she said, then raised her chin imperiously. "They are also Sons of Rohan, and we will treat them as such."

While all manner of freaking out took place over _that_ statement, Gandalf steered me away from the mayhem. He had an amused look on his face.

"Indeed, you _are_ a Shaper of Things," he said wryly. "And now I believe it is time we departed." He motioned to Ûnran, who rose from the cluster of stunned Orcs and joined us. He kept his head down, and I found I didn't know what to say to him.

"Do you think they'll kill each other over this?" I asked the wizard worriedly, noting the ferocious arguing that was going on. Oddly enough, Erkenbrand found himself defending his wife's comment against his own men. Either he truly believed what she said, or he was just _that_ loyal. Either way, his men were going ballistic, he was shouting them down, and Hildur was screaming at the top of her lungs for _some_ son of a bitch to come and take this damn Orc to the keep.

Yeah, I think retreat was a good idea. Domestic squabbles are _never_ anybody's idea of a good time.

"Time will tell," Gandalf said cryptically in answer to my question.

The wizard sent Boromir off to hurry Strider out of the laundry room and round up Gimli and Legolas, then the three of us headed for the front gates where Théoden and Éomer were getting the horsemen lined up.

Éomer shook his head with disgust. Evidently, Hildur's pronouncement had carried across the entire courtyard. "It is an insult, and made by a shield matron of Rohan!" he growled, casting a malicious glare at Ûnran. "What poison did you feed Erkenbrand's wife, Tanith?"

"I didn't do anything!" I protested. "She did the math all by herself."

"Éomer sister-son," Théoden said wearily, "it is an ugly truth we all must face." Looking at Ûnran, he sighed. The Orc slowly raised his eyes to meet the king's. "Will these few be as compliant as you, I wonder? As tame?"

Ûnran's face contorted in sudden fury and a growl rumbled out of him. "Ain't _tame_. I'm Fighting Uruk-hai, and no Man has fucking _tamed_ me!" he roared. His fists were clenched at his sides, holding back the can of whoop-ass he looked anxious to pop open on anyone who came within ten feet of him. I took a step back. What the _hell_?

He was quivering all over with the effort to suppress his anger, which seemed to billow out like a heat wave. I wondered what the hell those others said to him, and if somehow my little kiss had something to do with his present mood. I suddenly didn't want to share a horse with him, or have him at my back at all.

"Ûnran," Gandalf said sternly, "none think you tame, as one tames an animal or beast of burden. Théoden king merely wonders if those others have the same capacity for gentleness you have shown Tanith. If they can be _trusted_, given time to adjust. You spoke with them; what are your thoughts?"

If ever anyone looked stunned and caught in the headlights, it was Ûnran. Whatever crawled up his ass and gave him a bit of snark leaped right back out and took a runner, too. His eyes darted from one serious face to another, though he managed to avoid me with each round. _That_ didn't make me feel any better.

"Don't... know," he admitted slowly, bowing his head. I watched his hands; they were clenching and releasing, shaking a little. "What they did... shamed them. They fear Master's wrath, but... Falthu was down and... he's their leader, so... they stood by him."

"Is Falthu the one so grievously wounded?" Gandalf asked. Ûnran nodded.

"Saw the trees," he went on. "Don't know what they meant 'bout that. But... scared'em bad. Didn't wanna go in, didn't wanna get trampled." Swallowing hard, he grimaced as if he was loathe to reveal such a thing about his people. "Didn't wanna die, is all. Some Dunlending filth was givin' themselves up and gettin' spared, so... thought they might get lucky. Didn't have nothin' to lose. Not no more."

"Do you think they might be...," Theoden began, then hesitated. He actually looked like he was weighing his words so not to set Ûnran off again. "That they may have the capacity for gentleness, as Gandalf says? Might they be capable of treating with Men without violence? As you do?"

"Don't know," he snapped. Bowing his head, he muttered tightly, "Think I'm a slave. Call me _her_ pet. Think _I_ oughta be ashamed. Cause I betrayed'em. Didn't do nothin' to help. Defied our Master. Didn't fight. Like a c-coward."

I was startled. They thought he was my _pet_? They actually called him a coward? Good god. I thought they'd be ribbing him like boys in a locker room about that kiss; instead, they were accusing him of selling out. I found myself longing for the battle to still be raging, so we could be back in the cave, huddled together chatting in relative peace. I could only hope this crowd would disperse at some point and let us have a moment to talk it out. Obviously, I'd stepped over a line. I put him in an awkward position he couldn't talk his way out of.

Hear that, Floozy? Yuh fucked up.

_That's your opinion_.

Just saying.


	29. Wanton Disregard for Propriety

**Wanton Disregard for Propriety**

I was so embarrassed and ashamed of myself for, well, embarrassing and shaming Ûnran, that I couldn't look at him at all when we mounted Hasufel. His scowl didn't invite discussion or even friendly banter, so I kept my head down and tried not to flinch when he sat up close behind me and embraced my waist. I could just _feel_ that it was for balance and security only, not the kind of intimacy we'd shared before.

The first order of business for the company that departed from the fortress was stopping for a moment of mournful silence by the dead men being buried alongside the dike. I learned one was Háma, the trusty doorwarden, who it turns out was also a captain. Théoden dismounted and said a few words, then cast the first handful of dirt into the grave. Ûnran was silent behind me, and I honestly didn't want to turn and see what look might be on his face. I guess I wished I could just run away from him entirely, I was so humiliated.

Finally, we departed for real, and trotted down into the battlefield itself. I had to fix my eyes on Gandalf's back ahead of me, or I'd hurl over the side. There was gore and hacked body parts all over the place. Men were still dragging the dead Orcs into mounds. I could feel Ûnran tensing behind me, could hear _and_ feel the low growl rumbling in his chest.

Then we saw the huge forest of death in front of us, and for some strange damn reason, Gandalf was heading for it. _Straight_ for it. I noticed the road-like path we followed was _also_ leading into the seemingly impenetrable woods. Halting at the edge, Gandalf turned and looked behind at me and Ûnran.

"Here we must be cautious," he informed us, unnecessarily, I thought. "Many Orcs met their end within this forest. Indeed, this is the very wood your folk spoke of, Ûnran. Do not rouse them by word or thought. Keep your silence. You also, Tanith, though your nearness to him has already given them pause." He stopped for a moment and tilted his head, listening. "Yes, they whisper. Can you not hear, Legolas?"

"Yes," the Elf replied. "There is anger, the desire for vengeance. And yet... confusion." He looked at Ûnran behind me. "They do not understand why you are among us."

"Got no place else to go," he snarled, and I winced at the harsh tone in his voice. I felt like telling everyone to get the hell away from us and give us a moment to talk in private. There had to be some way I could get us back to where we were. Apologize. Grovel. Something. _Anything_.

Gandalf looked at the Orc with narrowed eyes, as if he detected the same agitation and anger that I did. Then he motioned for us to pull up alongside him. "If you are within my sights, I will be better able to protect you from any threats," the wizard explained when we were in position. Then he lowered his voice for our ears only. "As for your... discomfort, Ûnran, I suggest you hold your opinion until such time as words may be spoken between you. Misunderstanding should not taint what grows in your heart." Then he nudged Shadowfax forward, and Hasufel dutifully fell into step.

I decided a special batch of my grandma's Snickerdoodles was also on the docket for Gandalf at my first opportunity. What an awesome save! And here I thought he'd be all grossed out by my moment of weakness. Still, Ûnran was pretty stubborn, and only responded with a huffing grunt. But _I_ was encouraged. Maybe he was still putting on airs, and by the time we camped, he'd be a little more open.

All thoughts of a benign or hopeful nature fled like little frickin' cowards when we crossed the border from late afternoon sun-bathed plainsland into dark and sinister forest. There should have been a sign post saying 'I'd turn back if I were you' as we entered. Though the trees kindly stayed off the road, and even let us see a narrow strip of blue sky above our heads, that was likely so we wouldn't miss the flying monkeys dive bombing us halfway through. It was oppressively hot in there, too. Like having a hot Orc cleaved to my back wasn't bad enough.

And I mean hot in the temperature sense, not... Okay, _yes_, Floozy, he's pretty hot in _that_ sense, too. Before you start voicing your damned opinions.

_Didn't say a word._

Regardless of Gandalf's reassurance or the presence of twenty plus men in our wake, not to mention an Elf who could speak tree or whatever, I shook like a leaf in a hurricane all the way through. Thousands of Orcs plowed through this forest just a scant few hours ago, and there was _no_ evidence that they had. Not a distant scream of terror or a stray weapon lying around... nothing. A hundred thousand men escorting me through wouldn't have made it any better. You know how I could feel the unwelcomeness of the Old Forest when I first arrived? Good god, it was _nothing_ compared to this one. Pissy and get-the-fuck-out were the mildest emotions I could feel. It wasn't like I was super-sensitive all of a sudden, either. The air was heavy, the trees were _moving_ slightly, like _walking_ just out of the periphery of your vision, and seeming to stop when you turned. There was a breeze up in the canopy making the topmost leaves rustle, but down in the trench it was completely still, no wind at all, but you could hear and see the same kind of motion among the branches that you would on a windy day. Must have been how they talked, I suppose. And it sounded like angry murmuring, all that branch-rubbing and leaf waving.

Naturally, Legolas the Green wanted to go poncing off into the thick of it and 'talk' to the trees. Wanna hug a few as well? Freak. Gimli, thankfully, told him to stuff it up his ass. In not so many words, of course.

"Tanith, would you agree that the Caverns of Helm's Deep are without equal in their beauty?" Gimli asked, turning to me. Damn, and I'd hoped they'd all leave me the hell alone to brood in my own silent bubble.

"Um, well, that's hard to say," I said. "I had a few other... concerns. But I remember that they were pretty, the little I could see where we were sort of cowering in a corner, trying not to provoke a whole crapload of very pissed women."

The Dwarf chuckled and adjusted his seat behind Legolas. "I had forgot. You and Ûnran were closeted with the women and children. I suspect your time was nearly as fraught with danger as ours." His tone was just a hair into the condescension range.

"Yeah," I said absently, frowning a bit. Ûnran was becoming even more tense with the change of topic, almost like he was going to give someone an earful if they weren't careful. "I had to talk them out of ripping him to shreds. Don't underestimate women, Gimli. I was fully expecting a mass of them to sweep me out of the way and tear him to pieces, no joke."

Gimli regarded me with surprise. "I... suppose I never thought..."

"We're treated like we're helpless," I explained. "Like we have no defenses. We're beaten on, assaulted, belittled, ignored, ridiculed... Because we're thought of as weak. Well, my friend, we're not. And especially when we've decided we've had enough. Those 'ladies' in the caves were herded down there because their men didn't think they would be of any use up top. Maybe that's not what they were _consciously_ thinking... probably called it 'protecting the innocent' or some other bullshit, but the fact remains, Rohan trains her women to bear arms, but won't let them do it when the shit hits the fan." I shot an accusatory look at Théoden, who had the decency to look away with a touch of embarassment. "So, while they're holed up for their own good underground, along comes one of the Enemy, and wow, it was like Christmas came early. I swear to god, if I hadn't talked Hildur in off the ledge, she would have led the charge."

"It must have required quite an eloquent argument," Legolas commented. I eyed him suspiciously, wondering where the snark was in _that_ statement, but couldn't find anything in his face to give him away. Ah. Getting clever, are we? Fucker.

"Well, you know me," I said slowly. "Mouth never stops. In any case, Ûnran kept his cool and women, as a group, are not blind _or_ stupid. He wasn't posing any threat to them, and they eventually backed off. The noise _you_ guys were making was a bit distracting. Helped quite a bit in refocusing their worries."

"I would like to revisit those caves," Gimli said, doing his level best to redirect the conversation to the original topic. "There was not enough time to explore their wonders before our departure."

I sadly agreed with him. Back in those caves, Ûnran and I could talk. We were... I don't know, _connected_. Now I couldn't see over the wall he'd put up. It made me sad and ill at the same time. So close, yet so far, far away...

Only half listening to Gimli going on and on about the formations of the caves and how Dwarves for miles around would make pilgrimages to them for a peek, I wondered if a chat about things actually _would_ help. I wasn't very experienced with the boyfriend/girlfriend paradigm, but I had to admit to myself that I was sitting in the middle of one. These warm fuzzies weren't for the hell of it and, like Legolas said, did _not_ indicate a friends-only relationship.

But I was still hearing the 'he's an _Orc_' argument, though it was getting less urgent. Losing its importance in the overall scheme of things. Apparently, just based on Gandalf's comments so far, it sounded to me like he'd already dismissed the argument completely. Talk about a progressive thinker. This was definitely taking 'interracial' to a whole new level. Damn near 'interspecies.'

But as usual, it came down to Ûnran. He was an individual, not a whole pack of Orcs. I wasn't making arrangements to share my bed with a herd of them, just... him.

Floozy? Was that one you?

_Nope. It's all you. About time you caught on._

So... are you saying... I want...

_Yes. Like I said before, go with it._

But...

_No buts._

Dammit.

* * *

><p>Once we emerged from the oppressive forest, we got to see some of the actual Ents coming out. They waded out into the grassy plain as if it were surf, then cupped their long-fingered, barky hands around their mouths and emitted low, thrumming calls. After a few minutes, a few more came from the direction we were headed, joined the three from the forest, then all of them disappeared back inside. We all just stared like stupid people.<p>

Since we were out of danger, for the most part, I held Hasufel back a bit and let Théoden sidle up and bend Gandalf's ear. Being a bit more Ent-savvy than your average Rohirrim, what with the movie and all, I retreated back into my own little miserable world. Looking down, I saw Ûnran's reddish-brown hands loosely folded over one another across my stomach, and my eyes blurred.

What made it all worse was that I _knew_ we could sort it out, but we just never got a moment alone. There was always someone hanging over us, thinking he'd go all Isengard on my ass or something. And if it wasn't people not trusting _him_, it was stupid ass Boromir thinking if he flashed his endowments in my face, I'd come running. Oh, I was running, all right. In the completely opposite direction. You don't threaten a virgin with dick, dude. Sorry.

Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. Gandalf and Théoden seemed to have wrapped up their discussion about Ents and children's tales, and urged their horses into motion. Hasufel didn't even wait for his stupid riders to give the order, and we lurched forward.

As the company began to pick up the pace to a steady canter, I turned my head a little and said quietly over my shoulder, "I'm sorry, Ûnran."

"Are yuh?" he growled. "Don't believe yuh."

"I _am_," I insisted. He just snorted, making me feel even smaller. The tears that were filling my eyes finally spilled over, dripping on his hand as I bowed my head. It wasn't even one of those hitching sobs kind of crying, just the silent waterworks pouring down the face. Like I was completely spent and this was all I had left.

I saw his hand move, pulling back and away. God, he didn't even want my _tears_ on him. _Now_ a little sob broke out.

"Tanith," he said quietly in my ear. Again, I half turned my head, just enough for him to see a bit of my face. Look at me, dammit. Don't I _look_ sorry? I turned forward again, but couldn't bring myself to hold my head up.

To my surprise, he encircled me with both arms, holding me close, and rested his chin on my shoulder. I let out a shaky sigh and leaned my head against his.

Unfortunately, the motion of the horse kept us from sitting with our heads together for long, but that brief moment was all I needed. I felt a hell of a lot better, like when we finally made camp, he and I could get some things out in the open and sorted out. But that was still hours away.

We passed the Fords of the Isen, the stream itself nearly dry. Théoden and Éomer were rather taken aback, and promptly blamed Saruman for sucking the river dry or somesuch. Wouldn't put it past the old bastard, myself, but I had a suspicion I knew what was causing the drought conditions downstream. Along the way, we found the mounds Gandalf had worked on to keep the fallen Riders from being chewed on by the wolves we could hear howling up a storm in the distance, or pecked at by the carrion birds wheeling in the sky even this late at night.

I had no idea how late it was when we finally made camp, but it was pitch dark with hardly even a smidgen of moonlight to keep us from falling over each other. Gandalf wouldn't let us light a fire, so it was one big bumbling mass of clumsy people getting in each others' way for about an hour. While they sorted out their crap, I grabbed Ûnran's hand and all but dragged him out of the immediate area. Thankfully, he didn't protest.

When we were relatively alone, I didn't even know what to say, where to begin, what to do... I just hugged myself and stared at the ground. He didn't seem to have a speech prepared, either. It must have been rather comical, the two of us standing in front of each other without a god damn clue what to say.

"I'm... sorry I kissed you," I finally blurted awkwardly. "It was out of line, and... I had no idea... I didn't even know what the hell I was doing. I didn't know it was... an offensive thing among Orcs. I'm _really_ sorry."

"What's a kiss?" he asked, sounding rather baffled.

A little surprised myself, I said, "That's... what I did to you. I kissed your cheek. Isn't that... what pissed you off?"

"Oh," he replied. "Yeah. Narglob saw it; said you was mockin' me."

I was struck speechless for a moment. What in the world? "No, that's... that's not what that was, Ûnran."

"Hmph," he snorted. "Ain't what _he_ said. I didn't know nothin', uh course. Called me a stupid fuckin' whelp for _not_ knowin'. Said there ain't no reason to put yer mouth on someone, except to kill. Or... to mark."

Well, _that_ was bizarre. "When you say 'mark'... what exactly do you mean by that?"

Huffing with what sounded like a mixture of impatience and embarassment, he snarled quietly, "Orcs bite. He said it's done to claim a mate. And just cause... it feels good. Tastes good."

It took a bit of effort to keep from blanching or showing disgust in any way. I had to keep reminding myself that this was Ûnran, and he was an Orc. Their ways were... different. That didn't make him a bad person.

"Okay," I said slowly. "I guess then... you draw blood, right?"

"Gotta," he replied. "Leave a scar behind, so it can be seen. So... anyone can see you been claimed. Keep their fuckin' hands off."

"So let me get this straight," I said haltingly. "I... put my mouth on you. If I were a female Orc, I would have... bitten you. Right?" He nodded. "Because I didn't, Narglob said... I was... sort of... taunting you or something? Pulling a 'neener neener'?"

"Uh... yeah," he said uncertainly, probably trying to work out what 'neener' meant. I could just see his grimace in the darkness, could see his bowed head. "Told'im you was... good as a mate to me. He said... a mate woulda bit me. Cause yuh didn't, it was like you was tellin' me... I weren't worthy of yuh. Not worth yer time. Not... good enough. So's everybody could see." His voice grew less and less controlled as he spoke, until it finally broke.

It took me a minute to register that he told another Orc that I was, you know, more or less his mate, sort of. I wasn't really sure how to handle that. What it meant to him _or_ me.

While he tried to master himself, I shook it off and took hold of his hands. "I see," I said. "Well, I hate to tell you, but... I don't think you'd _want_ me biting you. I mean, god, look at these worthless things. Even if I _could_ get a hold of you, I probably wouldn't be able to break the skin."

He grunted a reluctant chuckle, and it seemed that some of the tension was easing between us. Feeling encouraged, I said, "Have you ever... you know... wanted to... mark me?"

"Every fuckin' minute," he growled. "Soon as I saw yuh with that other Uruk, wanted to do it. Didn't know why. Never felt like that before. There's so much I don't know."

Taking a deep breath, I nodded. "Yeah, well, I guess Saruman didn't think Orc Culture 101 was a worthy investment. So... well... you're an Orc, Ûnran. Maybe there are some things that are... sort of instinctive. Like... the marking. There are... differences between us. Obviously." Shivering a little, I muttered, "Really big ones."

"Don't wanna be different," he snarled. "Don't wanna be somethin' everybody hates."

"Not... everybody. I don't hate you."

He snorted. "I bite yuh, you'll hate me."

"We'll just have to see what happens, won't we?" I found myself saying, and frowned a little. Excuse me, Floozy? Did you just consent to being _bitten_? Are you out of your fucking _mind_?

_Love bites. Tasty._

Shut the hell up.

"Maybe... done right... it wouldn't be so bad, you think?" What? Bitch!

_Go with it._

"Don't know how," he said sullenly. "Probably rip out yer throat." Sighing, he squeezed my hands. "Don't let me, Tanith. Please don't."

"Well, we'll see," I said. I paused for a moment to take a deep breath and let it out a little shakily. I could almost feel the Floozy leaning forward eagerly. "Ûnran, there has been a _huge_ misunderstanding between us. Humans don't... bite each other. We kiss. It's... it's an expression of how we feel. It says, 'I care about you.' It says, 'I want to be close to you.' And... it says... 'I... want _you_, and no one else.'"

You could have heard a pin drop, even on the dry grassland we were standing in. I thought he stopped breathing, it was so quiet. "Now," I said, trying to lighten the mood a little, "maybe you can tell me what made this Narglob person such a damn expert on Orc mating rites when there aren't any Orc females in Isengard. Seems to me he was talking out his ass."

In spite of himself, Ûnran snorted another laugh. "Probably right," he allowed.

"Let's not worry about that right now, then," I said, managing somehow to corral the Floozy into a corner and muzzle her. "Is that... all he said that upset you?"

"No," he replied. "Like I said, he called me yer pet."

"Because you took a bath?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "I do believe you would have done it on your own if nobody suggested it. My recollection is that you were rather a stickler for cleanliness, when you could be."

"Wasn't that," he muttered a little sheepishly. "Not _just_ that. Yuh gave me orders; told me to talk to'em. And I did. Saw me walkin' 'round with Boromir. Not tied up or nothin'. Like a good little slave."

"If you want my opinion, that's horse shit," I said, and he laughed a little more easily. "It takes a lot of courage to face your enemies, and a hell of a lot to keep your hatred of them under wraps. They'll be facing _that_ little truth right about now, I'm thinking." Furrowing my brow, I asked, "By the way, what was the deal with Boromir? You two seemed awful friendly. Is he finally being less of a jerk?"

A low growl rumbled in Ûnran's chest. "Fucker thinks I don't know nothin'. Wants to get at yuh, so he's bein' nice to me."

I had to laugh, like really laugh explosively, complete with nasal snorting. "Oh man, that's fantastic! You're serious? Jesus!"

"What?"

Shaking my head, I tittered a little bit more before answering. "He's the biggest dweeb, I swear. Using you to get to me? What is this, middle school? Okay, I don't want you to kill him or provoke him into killing _you_, but you don't have to be nice to him if you don't want to."

"So... what he's tryin' won't work?" he asked hesitantly.

"_Hell_ no, it won't work," I snorted. "I'm not stupid, either. I know what I want, and he ain't it."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "yuh like'em dark and pissy, right?"

"Exactly. The pissier the better."

We stood holding hands for another minute or so without speaking, and I swear, that was fine with me. Just... having him back...

"So...," he said hesitantly, "you, uh... was kissin' me? Somethin' whiteskins do?"

"Yeah," I said, nodding even though he probably couldn't see it very well. "Do you... um... want to try it... for real?" It was a good thing it was too dark for him to see my startled expression. God damn Floozy slipped her muzzle.

"Whatchou mean?" he asked with just a hint of suspicion.

"Well, um, we _usually_ kiss each other... on the mouth," I found myself saying, and I wanted to strangle her. But no amount of waving her off seemed to be having an affect. "If you want to try it."

"I want what you want," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"I think... I want to kiss you," the Floozy replied and I just ducked under the nearest desk to wait out the tornado drill.

"All right," he replied a little breathlessly. "This gonna be... good?"

"I think so," I said, smiling a little. It was like I was watching a movie from a safe distance as my hands cupped his face and drew him down. Tilted his head slightly. Ignored his nervous questions of 'what do I do,' 'how does this work,' 'are you sure.' Closed my eyes, like that mattered.

My lips barely brushed his, just a soft touch. I felt his hands go to my hips, heard his breath quicken along with mine. Keeping one hand on his cheek, I slipped an arm around his neck, and pressed a little more firmly against his thin lips, felt the contours of his sharp, jagged teeth. He followed my lead, embracing me and pulling me closer. His lips parted slightly with mine, matched my movement, drew me in...

_Sweet kisses in the dark..._

For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. I could definitely see the appeal of flinging clothes in all directions in that suspended instant. Warmth seemed to flood my body, even down to my toes, which had started to curl for some reason. The Teen's magical flutters were working overtime in the nether regions, nearly compromising my leg support. I swear to god, the Floozy ripped open her bodice and flashed her tits. You know, in my head, because I promise _I _wasn't doing it.

Then Ûnran grunted slightly, startling me. A second later, he broke off completely with a groan, and stepped back a few feet.

"I'm... I'm sorry...," I gasped, trying to steady my heartbeat.

"Hurts," he snarled. "Want... bad... _hurts_." As if he couldn't hold it in a moment more, he threw his head back and howled, then sank to his knees. It was the most agonized sound I ever heard from him, and I didn't know what the hell to do.

Naturally, several people came running.

"Are you all right, Tanith?" Gandalf asked. He was the first one to arrive, which made me wonder suddenly if he'd been watching and listening. Good grief! How could I suspect... He's an old man! But so was Saruman, I suppose... Well, shit.

Éomer and Boromir showed up with swords out, looking for trouble. Strider went to me as well. Nobody seemed to give a shit about the trembling, moaning Orc on the ground. Pushing them all out of my way, I approached Ûnran cautiously.

Without taking my eyes off him, I asked, "Gandalf, tomorrow... we're breaking his hold on them, aren't we?"

"Yes, Tanith," he replied. "That is my intention."

"One more day, Ûnran," I whispered. "Just one more."

* * *

><p>It seemed prudent to return to the safety of the camp, especially when not ten minutes after we did so, the gigantic forest of death flowed past us on its way back to Fangorn. Damn good thing Ûnran wasn't in the path of <em>that<em> crowd without Gandalf to save him. I hoped that was what the wizard was watching for, not lurking in the shadows hoping to see some Orc porn. I would expect that sort of behavior from his counterpart in yonder tower, not him.

Now that things were okay with Ûnran, and he'd managed to overcome the pain of such an incredibly huge boner, we bedded down next to each other and indulged in a little hand-holding for the remainder of the night. I couldn't get that kiss out of my mind, kept reliving it over and over again. God damn Floozy. Likely smoking a cigarette right now.

_That was just first base. Got a few more to cover._

I think he's already made it to second, you horny bitch.

_I don't think that counts. Too brief. You want to linger on second base. Really worry the pitcher. Make her think you're heading for third._

Um... have you _seen_ his claws? I don't think I want those damn things anywhere _near_ my nethers, thank you very much.

_It's all in the technique._

Which he doesn't have. Need I remind you?

_He can learn._

You are one sorry, sorry whore, Floozy.

_Twenty-six with nary a peek into your panties, finally find someone you want to jump like a stalled car, and **I'm** a sorry whore?_

I... don't think I... come _on_. You make it sound so nasty.

_Maybe you need a little nasty. Ask the people around you; nothing nastier than feeling up an Orc._

I didn't 'feel him up,' for Christ's sake.

_Should've. You know what he's got goin' on. Lots of fun things to explore._

Why are we even having this conversation? Your mind is completely in the gutter.

_So is yours. He aroused you to an unprecedented level. It's a wonder **you** didn't howl at the moon._

That wasn't because he was... Okay, _yes_, he was massively turned on, but it was the pain. Saruman's curse or whatever. Because he fought against, you know, jumping _me_.

_He must have smelled it on you._

Smelled what?

_How much you wanted him. I do believe it crossed your mind to get naked._

That is _hardly_ something I want to remember!

_Just saying._


	30. It's a Cold and It's a Broken Hallelujah

**It's a Cold and It's a Broken Hallelujah**

_Tanith._

This was disturbingly familiar. Rousing myself out of desperately needed sleep, I cracked one eye open and looked toward the speaker. Had to raise my head off Ûnran's chest to do it, too. Apparently, he was a chick magnet at night.

"Whattayou want, Legolas?" I grumbled, dropping my head again and snuggling closer. I could tell by the rumble under my ear that Ûnran didn't much like the Elf so close, either.

"The camp begins to stir," he said in a discreet voice. That alone brought me fully awake. "Perhaps you should... put a few inches between each other. For... courtesy's sake."

I gave him one of those WTF looks, not because I thought he was out of line, but because... well, up to this point, he seemed to go out of his way to be a colossal space dick about Ûnran, and I got hit by the shrapnel because I wouldn't step away from the target zone. He _did_ look rather uncomfortable, though. That much hadn't changed.

Once we separated and started rolling up our pallets, I had to give Legolas credit for the save. Éomer and some of his men were still giving Ûnran _the look_. You know the one. The 'step away from my sister, or you are one dead mother fucker' kind of look. I had a feeling Wormtongue got it damn near every day.

Ûnran, however, looked like he expected all kinds of hell to come down on his head in about five minutes.

"Hey," I said quietly. "You okay?"

"Don't wanna go back in there," he growled in an undertone. He winced and looked away, probably imagining the lovely welcome he'd likely receive. I wanted to tell him the residents were a little busy right now, and probably wouldn't notice him at all, but... well, I just couldn't be _sure_. Things were getting kind of wacky, what with the Orcs surrendering and everything. Was that in the book and just left out of the movie for time constraint reasons? Or did I screw things up that much? So if I did, what went to hell in a hand basket in Isengard? Best just to keep my mouth shut and play dumb until I found out, I guess.

"I'm not too excited about going _in_," I told him. "But... well, we have to. Saruman needs a good thrashing, and I think Gandalf's ready to bust out a can of whoop-ass all over him. _That's_ a show you won't want to miss, right?"

"Suppose not," he chuckled. "Yuh said... he'd break it. Free me and them others. That true?"

"That's one of the goals," I said, nodding. A thread of worry spun through me for a moment, looking into his yellow eyes. What would it do to him? Just let go, or erase his mind? Good god, would he even remember me?

That last thought put a lead weight in my stomach that wouldn't go away. When the company started mounting up, Hasufel was about as happy to see us as ever, snorting through his nose and shaking his head as we clumsily found our seats. Then the _real_ fun began.

At first, Ûnran was a little cozy. A nice, close embrace, much nuzzling around the ear that tickled and made me squirm and giggle a bit. He purred, too. That was new. Then we entered the outer ring or something. Gandalf called it Nan Curinír. Off in the distance still ahead, we could see a huge fog bank and steam rising. If we were supposed to be able to see the top of the tower from here, it was completely hidden by the clouds. The view was evidently so different from the way it was when Ûnran left that he stopped teasing and stared in stunned silence.

Ahead of us stood a tall black pillar of rock, with a stone at the top crudely carved in the shape of a hand. It was sort of whitish, and pointing north, toward the tower. As we passed, it seemed to darken, turning the color of dried blood. I shuddered, and Ûnran squeezed me reassuringly. Where he was getting the wherewithal to reassure _anyone_, I had no idea.

Not far from Saruman's welcome sign, we entered the outer edges of the mists. It was cold in there, and immediately put me in mind of the Barrow Downs. Ah shit, did Merry and Pippin unleash _those_ sons of bitches on Isengard, too? Just what Middle Earth needed: a zombie apocolypse. Yeah, bring'em all here for the party, boys. Serve up some Ent water, too. Get'em all drunk and ridiculously tall, then point them at Saruman.

Not that he didn't deserve it. I just didn't want to ride into the middle of it.

After a few minutes, the mists cleared and we could tell it was getting close to noon, just by the position of the sun overhead. In front of us, though, were the gates to the valley. Oh my. _That_ was stunning. They were twisted and broken. The roof of the tunnel through the stone ring around Isengard was completely gone, scattered all over the ground in front of us. Because, you know, Ents are tall. Wouldn't want to have to crawl into your enemy's lair. That lacks panache.

Over by the suddenly more accommodating entrance, surrounded by platters of food and bottles of wine, sat our two wayward Hobbit friends. Hell, Merry was even smoking his pipe. I covered my mouth to suppress a laugh.

Seeing us, Merry leaped off the pile of rubble and bowed elegantly. "Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!" he cried. It was so good to hear his voice, I nearly dismounted to give that little scamp a hug. "We have been given the task of doorwarden to this questionable establishment. I am Meriadoc, son of Saradoc, and my companion, who seems to be overcome with weariness," he said grandly, giving his cousin a toe to the gut, "is Peregrin son of Paladin. Within you will no doubt find the mighty lord Saruman, closeted with the not-quite-so-mighty Wormtongue."

Gandalf laughed heartily and shook his head. "Was it Saruman who gave you such a task, even knowing the fine distractions of his table might make you shirk your duty?"

"Nay," Merry said seriously. "He is otherwise occupied, as you shall see. Our orders come from Treebeard, who has taken over management of Isengard. He bid me say welcoming words to the Lord of Rohan, and I have done my best."

"And what of your friends, Legolas and me?" Gimli roared. I hated to tell him that precariously leaning around the Elf on the horse's back sort of diminished his authority a touch. "You woolly-footed rascals! You have led us a merry chase over two hundred leagues through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here, at the end of the chase, we find you feasting and _smoking_! Where did you get the weed, I ask you? Hammer and tongs, I am so torn between rage and joy, if I do not burst it will be a marvel!"

"Though Gimli speaks for me as well," Legolas said, barely suppressing his amusement, "I would sooner know where you came by the wine."

"Come now, you see us upon the field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts," Pippin chimed in.

"But that is not all we have acquired," Merry said gravely. "Gandalf, I hope... you are not angered. Nor you, good king of Rohan. But..." Here Merry glanced at Ûnran and me, and I jolted a bit with surprise. Why would he look at _us_? "We remembered Tanith's trust in this one, and... well... we _suggested_ that Treebeard... not be quite so hasty."

"What are you saying?" Théoden asked suspiciously. A quick peek at Gandalf told me he already knew what was coming.

"Well," Pippin continued, "you see, a few Orcs... surrendered. I think, had we not told Treebeard of Tanith's friend, he might have ordered their... um... well, he mightn't have shown mercy. But because of our tale, he... well, you shall see for yourselves just beyond the gates, such as they are."

"This is truly a time of wonder," Théoden said softly. "Twice in as many days have I seen figures out of legend. First Ents, now Hobbits. And in the same span, I have seen the unthinkable: Orcs begging mercy."

"I think they, too, have seen a wonder," Gandalf said. "For they have begged, and it has been granted. In time of War, when in the past none has been given."

I could feel Ûnran trembling behind me all of a sudden, and looked over my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Aye," he replied in an undertone. "Can't... Zûrash said whiteskins kill us all. Don't know what to think of this."

"Me neither," I said, and shook my head. "But it's good. It means... honestly, Ûnran, I thought these two battles would wipe out your race entirely. I really thought you'd be the only one left. Yeah, Saruman sucks, but... he made some pretty good Orcs."

Snorting a laugh, he murmured in my ear, "Yuh only get the one, yuh know. Can't have no more."

"Oh, I think I'll manage on one," I grinned. "One's plenty enough for me."

* * *

><p>Despite Gandalf's urgent desire to chat up Treebeard about everything, he accompanied us through the ruined tunnel to where a quartet of Ents were leaning threateningly over a couple dozen Orcs. If I thought the little group back at Helm's Deep were miserable-looking, they weren't even close to the level of pathetic <em>this<em> bunch reached. They looked like half-drowned rats. A quick scan told me that a bit less than half were Uruk-hai; the rest were those smaller Orcs that I typically saw doing all the grunt work.

Maybe because of the reaction from the others, Ûnran tried to keep a low profile, all but hiding behind me, like _that_ was possible. One Orc seemed to be the diplomatic representative of the whole bunch, and rose to meet us. Ûnran hissed in my ear.

"Fuck," he growled. "Pitmaster."

I narrowed my eyes and really looked at the Orc standing there, cringing in the sunlight. Holy crap, it _was_ the Pitmaster! I almost didn't recognize him, out here under the bright glare of the sun, washed sort of somewhat clean from the flooding. And he looked really, _really_ pissed.

"We come to treat with your Master," Théoden announced from his horse, probably not particularly interested in getting down to their level at the moment. "I am told you surrendered; you are in good company. A group of your fellows also laid down their arms at Helm's Deep only yesterday morn. When our business is concluded, you will be taken there and held until the War's end. Then... we shall see what must be done."

"Held?" the Pitmaster scoffed. "Tortured, more like. What promise yuh gonna give, eh?"

"Only the evidence of your own eyes," the king replied, and gestured toward us. Hasufel, who apparently only knew one master and we weren't it, sidled up to the king's horse. The gigantic slab of steak even turned so there was no hiding the Orc attached to his back, for crying out loud. "Ûnran, Tanith," Théoden beckoned, dismounting. Éomer and the Fellowship gang followed suit. For once, we got off the horse without landing ass first in the mud.

The whole bunch of them looked at us like they'd all been hit with a brick. Even the Pitmaster blinked stupidly for several seconds, mouth hanging open to show yucky rotten teeth, many of which were missing. Then he shook his head sharply.

"Ûnran?" he said incredulously. "That _you_, whelp?"

"Aye," Ûnran nodded uncomfortably. His eyes couldn't settle on the Pitmaster's face, seeming to find the ground far more interesting.

I didn't know what made me do it, but I reached over and took Ûnran's hand, lacing fingers with him firmly. He held on just as tightly.

The Orc's hairless brow rose slightly, then a leering grin split his face. "Don't that look nice, now. Told her what use yuh been put to, have yuh? Can't wait for her turn, eh?"

"For your information," I snapped, leaning forward slightly, "I'm well aware. And what's more, I think I know what I'll be telling _Kaalob_ if I ever see her."

His red-tinged eyes flared wide for a second, then he scowled. Shooting Ûnran a dark look, he snarled, "Yuh told her 'bout my mate, eh?"

"He didn't need to," I said smugly. "I heard you talking about her myself."

"This here's _my_ mate," Ûnran growled angrily. "Mind your fuckin' tongue."

Well, _that_ was a shocker. Not necessarily to me, who'd at least been given fair warning of his feelings on the matter, but for the rest of them, it was like a shot to the groin. I could see heads swiveling in our direction out of the corners of my eyes. So, you know, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"That's right," I said, lifting my chin defiantly. "So... mind your own damn business. _All_ of you." I skimmed the crowd, daring them to say something. Boromir looked stricken, Legolas appeared slightly ill, Gimli avoided my gaze and the Hobbits stared at us open-mouthed. Théoden and his nephew seemed at a loss for words.

Gandalf, still sitting astride Shadowfax, looked like he was trying not to laugh. "I believe we should not keep your Master waiting. If you feel up to it, perhaps you would join us? It should prove... interesting."

The Orcs all exchanged bewildered looks, then shrugged. Leaning toward Ûnran, the Pitmaster tapped his temple. "Yuh ain't so stupid, eh?" Grinning and nodding, he rejoined the other prisoners and shuffled along under the direction of the guard Ents.

When we mounted back up, and Ûnran was able to see what lay before us in the valley without the distraction of his former roommates, his breath sort of huffed rapidly. I could feel his chest pushing it out, as if he wanted to say something, but the devastation before us robbed him of all speech.

"Gone," he muttered. "All gone."

"I'm just glad you weren't here when everything went to hell, Ûnran," I said over my shoulder.

"Where am I gonna go now?" he asked in a small voice.

"Wherever I go," I replied, patting his hand. "I've got your back, sweetie."

He seemed to sigh with a measure of relief and squeezed my middle.

But damn. Isengard. What a frickin' mess. It looked like the aftermath of the most out of control water balloon fight in history. The kind of fight that started out with a few small kiddie balloons and escalated into the planes they use to put out wildfires. Of course, I'd seen Christmas display competitions in the neighborhood I grew up in that made the Ents' efforts look amateurish by comparison. Do _not_ try to out-Christmas-spirit Daryl Higgins. Just don't do it.

We trotted along in Gandalf's wake. Even the Orcs were trotting to keep up with the horses. The Ents didn't look like they were making any special effort; just _flowing_ along at a steady clip. Weirdest thing ever. The tower... excuse me, _Tower_ loomed in front of us. I had a sudden sense of _d__é__j__à__ vu_, like I'd seen this before, and not in the movie. For one thing, the Tower was a bit different. Not _tremendously_ different, but here and there... bits and pieces. No, what started freaking me out was the fact that _I'd seen this before_. In Galadriel's Mirror. Only... things were different. The Ents weren't clobbering stray Orcs left and right all around us. Yeah, there were bodies all over the place, floating in the pools, but it looked like the majority of mayhem was over. Like in the vision, though, steam hovered thickly over the deeper-looking pools.

And there was the _really_ significant difference cleaved to my backside that wasn't in the vision. Not that I was complaining. I suddenly wondered about the final image, and if that Orc I saw was Ûnran...

_Probably_.

Ah Jesus. I thought you were done.

_Well, you **did** accept him as a mate._

Isn't that like going steady? Boyfriend/girlfriend kind of thing?

_Don't be retarded._

Shit.

_Better start working out. Something tells me he's wild in the sack._

I did _not_ sign on for _that_!

_You stupid ass, you practically **married** him in front of fifty witnesses! Plus a few trees!_

Oh... god... holy crap...

Wasn't there, like, a little retraction section of _The Middle Earth Gazette_ where I could disavow or deny or fucking get out of whatever the hell contract I just signed? That way, I could tell him I left him a message, and while he was hunting for it, then finding someone to read it to him, I could be long gone. Yeah. Then I wouldn't have to look him in the face and give him the finger.

_Like you want to or something._

Shut the hell up! This isn't funny!

_Of course not. It's the most serious thing you've ever fallen stupidly into._

He's an _Orc_.

_Big whoop._

It _is_ a big god damned whoop! He's... got claws! And... teeth! And a laundry list of personal trauma that makes him all kinds of dangeous to be around all by itself, _let alone_ just being an Orc.

_He's **Û****nran**. He could have taken any number of those traumas out on you. He could have taken **anything** he wanted from you without fear of reprisal._

But he didn't.

_He didn't_.

So...

_So..._

You think... maybe...

_Yes, and so do you._

Before I knew it, we were stopping in the shadow of the Tower. My friends were all dismounting, so Ûnran and I followed suit. The Orcs who accompanied us sat sullenly on the broken flagstones of the road leading to the Tower's steps. My eyes immediately rose to the top, expecting to see the old bastard standing up there with Mr. Snivelly.

Gandalf, Strider, Théoden, and Éomer mounted the steps, and Gandalf banged on the front door with his staff. "Saruman, come forth!"

After a few minutes, a little window above the door opened, and the unmistakable whine of Wormtongue said, "Who is it?"

I almost lost it. It was _so_ like _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_, I half expected a cow to get launched from the tower. Beside me, Ûnran was once more growling menacingly, though he seemed a bit uncertain when he noticed I was trying not to laugh. I waved away any questions he might have been thinking of asking. If I had to explain the joke, we'd be here all day.

"Fetch your master, Gríma Wormtongue!" Gandalf said. "We do not wish to treat with you."

The little window closed as if the bouncer at the speakeasy thought we might be dirty revenooers. Then we heard a voice.

Correction. _Voice_. I knew it pretty well already, just through Ûnran, but hearing it live and in person... I felt like something slimy was crawling all over me. The longer he talked, the more clearly I remembered every time I'd heard him speak, and not a single memory was a nice one. Eventually I realized he was standing on a balcony above us, not too many yards up. I supposed that would make it easier to be heard. I frankly had no idea how Jackson expected us to believe even _Saruman_ could speak at a normal level and be heard hundreds of feet below on the valley floor.

The tone and choice of words kind of made you think that he was sitting in his drawing room having a cup of tea, when _all of a sudden_ these ruffian trees came down from the rougher side of town and started knocking over trash cans and scaring the cats. Being the kindly old man that he is, he offered them tea _and_ crumpets, but they practically knocked the teapot out of his hands and started spray painting the walls with gang symbols and curse words.

Looking around, I swear everybody looked chagrined, like any minute now even Théoden was going to apologize to Mr. Wilson while scuffing his toe in the dirt and staring at the ground with embarrassment.

Was I the _only one_ who remembered that son of a bitch molested Ûnran and ordered him to rape women? That any time he tried to think for himself and it didn't match what the shitstick rammed into his head, he'd collapse from the pain? Christ on a bicycle, even _Ûnran_ looked like he was ashamed to have disturbed the rotten bastard's relaxing evening!

And him standing there in his pristine robes of... some damn color. I wasn't too sure about that. Regardless, spotless and clean, prim and proper, while the Uruk-hai he made were barely covered in shreds of rotten clothing, filthy and beaten up, just had their entire world shoved up their asses, completely lost and bereft, and their Master, their _creator_ deftly avoided any mention of them, as if they showed up on his doorstep unannounced and he spent the last several years putting them up on the couch because he was just _that nice a guy_.

Okay, that's it. Brat, where are you? This is your department.

_Reporting for duty. Where's the target?_

That giant piece of shit schmoozing his way out of trouble up there. Give'im what for.

_He is so dead. Grab some crap._

Following the Brat's lead, I bent down and scooped up a handful of really stinky mud. Hopefully there was Orc shit in it. Okay, not really. But it was gross, regardless. Testing the weight for a second, I hauled back and let it fly.

Yay for high school softball. My missile sailed right over the rail and hit Saruman square in the chest. He halted in mid-sentence, slowly looking down at the scum dripping down the front of his robe.

"Everyone out here is now dumber for having listened to the idiotic swill that just poured out of your mouth!" I roared. "I'd call you stupid, but that would be an insult to _stupid_ people!"

Well. _That_ went over well. Apparently a clumsy mix of Jim Downey and Jamie Lee Curtis had the same effect as a fart in church.

First, Saruman delicately scraped the crap off his robe, then he extended his hand toward me. How that skinny white face of his could hold so much pissed, I couldn't tell you. For a second, I almost laughed. Yeah, nice try, but Jedi you ain't.

Then I found out he was.

It started out as a tightness in my throat that quickly escalated to an uncomfortable squeeze, then I couldn't breathe. I started to panic, and clawed at the hands I could _feel_ around my throat, but there wasn't anything there to grab. A rushing wind was in my ears, but I could still hear Ûnran bellowing like a bull elephant next to me, likely spewing Orcish profanity at his Master by the sound of it. But he wasn't the only one. As my knees gave way and Ûnran held me up, I realized the other noisemakers were the Orcs. My eyes were rolling back, but I saw for a moment what looked like a shower of debris sailing past overhead, straight at the tower.

What, they're throwing _rocks_ at Saruman? You go, guys!

The next few things to happen were kind of blurred in an oxygen-deprived haze. I heard a bang, then there was an almost audible _whoosh_ as the hold on my throat released and air rushed back into my lungs. I fell weakly against Ûnran, but he didn't stay put. I looked up just in time to see his head fling back and mouth open on a scream that I hadn't heard come out of him since day one. Then his knees buckled and he pitched over backwards, landing heavily flat on his back.

I was shocked enough to see him drop like that, never mind when he continued to roar in agony and started convulsing like he was having a seizure. _Now_ I panicked completely. I practically fell on top of him, trying to hold him still, keep him from swallowing his tongue, slapping his cheeks, thumping his chest; all those I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-to-do things you do when you don't know what the fuck to do.

Looking around for someone, _anyone_ to help me, I saw that the other Uruk-hai were in a similar state, and now all ten of them had a couple of Riders each, trying almost as hard as I was to calm them. The Orcs were bewildered and pretty much unaffected. They didn't know what the hell to do, either. My eyes found Gandalf, and he looked completely surprised.

Realizing no help was coming from any direction, I leaned over Ûnran and tried to soothe him. Or maybe me. I wasn't sure he could even hear.

"Ûnran," I said shakily. His entire body was jerking, and his yellow eyes were rolled back. At least he'd stopped hollering. Maybe... maybe he wasn't in pain anymore. Oh god. "Ûnran. Don't leave me. _Please_."

It seemed to go on and on, but gradually the convulsions slowed and stopped. His breathing was shallow, coming in short gasps. The tears were _pouring_ out of my eyes. I stroked his face, smoothed his forehead, watched every twitch. I didn't want to miss it if his eyes came back to the front, even for a second.

"Come back to me," I whispered. "Ûnran, come back. He's gone now. You can come back. Please. Come back."

It occurred to me that I wasn't alone. Legolas was kneeling in the mud across from me, staring down at him. Our eyes met, and he said, "I... I didn't realize... I'm so sorry, Tanith."

I couldn't say anything. Looking down at Ûnran's face, I felt the weight of it crush me. So fucking heavy. All I wanted was to get it the hell _off_. Relief. _Please_ let me have relief.

"Ûnran," I croaked hoarsely, "don't leave me. I... I can't live without you. _Please_ come back."

Slowly, his eyes rolled forward, but they were glassy, unseeing. He just stared toward the sky like he wasn't home anymore. I fell across his body, clutching his shirt.

"Oh god, Ûnran," I sobbed, "please. You can't. You _can't_. Not now." I felt his chest expand with a little more strength, and quickly looked up at his face. He blinked once but still seemed out of it. Encouraged, I hovered over him and continued to stroke his cheeks and watch every flutter of his eyelids. "Ûnran. Come on. Come back to me."

_It's right there. Say it._

Another minute and he'll be back. I won't need to.

_He needs to hear it. You need to say it. Get it off your chest before you collapse from the weight of it._

Bitch.

_Just saying._

"Ûnran," I whispered, "I... I... uh... Can you hear me?" No answer. Okay. I can do this. "I llll... I luh... Fuck. I _love_ you. Now don't you dare leave me, all right?"

"Are you certain?" Legolas asked quietly.

"Yeah," I said a little sheepishly.

"Tan-," a hoarse voice croaked. I quickly looked down. Ûnran took a deep breath. "Tanith."

"I'm here," I said quickly, and my hand went to his cheek once more. "I thought you were going to leave me there for a minute."

He sort of half smiled and chuckled a little. "Ain't leavin' yuh, Tanith. Couldn't if I wanted to. And I don't."

"That's good to know." Hesitating a little, I forced myself to ask, "How do you feel?"

"Like wakin' up after a nightmare," he said slowly. "Tired. So fuckin' tired. But it's quiet. Don't hear nothin'. I could sleep now, I think."

"Well, now might not be the right time," I said, looking around. The other Uruk-hai were in various states of recovery themselves, some even sitting up and shaking their heads. A few of the Orcs were squatted next to some, checking on them. The Riders who'd leaped to their aid now stood around looking a little awkward and embarrassed.

Sometime during the spectacle, the Sphere of Really Bad Juju must have surfaced, because Gandalf was in the process of relieving the ever-curious Pippin of his burden. Strider came over to us.

"Are you both all right?" he asked.

I nodded, and between Legolas and I, we got Ûnran up. He was thoroughly done in, and could barely stand on his own. Supported between us, he sagged weakly. The Orcs were obliged to help the Uruk-hai as well, for almost none of them were in any condition to sprint back to Helm's Deep. Assessing the situation, Gandalf called on Treebeard and had a chat with him.

Weirdest thing to _ever_ march across Rohan, hands down, would have to be the Ents _carrying_ incapacitated Uruk-hai to the makeshift prisoner of war camp being established in Erkenbrand's back yard. Practically postcard-worthy.

All business evidently concluded, we mounted up and made our way out of the valley. Ûnran was a bit wobbly, but he held on to me. Practically _laying_ on my back, he was so weak. Still, he was able to whisper in my ear.

"Love yuh, Tanith," he said.

I turned my head. He was leaning over my shoulder, so I pecked him on the cheek. "Love you, too."

"I know."

Jerk.


	31. Bend Me, Shape Me, Any Way You Want Me

**Bend Me, Shape Me, Any Way You Want Me**

I felt good. A little nervous, but good. Whatever happened next, I could deal with. Just getting that one word out... God, I couldn't believe how hard it was to say, how heavy it weighed, and how relieved I was now that it was over with.

By the time we reached the broken tunnel leading out, my brain started winding back up. Taking stock. Remembering. One thing suddenly flared up like a beacon and startled me.

What the fuck happened to Saruman? Everything else going on sort of blinded me to what _that_ old douchebag was up to. He wasn't up on the spire, so there was no tumble over the side to land on the water wheel of wizard death. In which case, how did Pippin get the Palantír?

Giving Hasufel a bit of a kick, I steered him over to Strider. The Ranger looked a bit grim, but otherwise open to chatting.

"Hey, Strider," I said, and he glanced at me. "Don't think I'm an idiot or anything, but I totally missed what happened to Saruman. Where is he? And Wormtongue too?"

He chuckled a little. "I do not think you are an idiot, Tanith. You had more... pressing things on your mind." He smiled back at Ûnran, who was snoring on my shoulder. "Saruman has been stripped of his power, as you must surely know. I think, perhaps, Gandalf would have waited a moment longer, offered Saruman a chance for redemption, but for your actions and what followed."

I sort of slumped in the saddle, feeling pretty embarrassed. "Did I screw something up?" I asked in a small voice.

"Not at all," he said with a smile. He glanced up at the sky above us, now beginning to show signs of the sun setting. "Much was revealed in those moments. For one, those enthralled by his Voice saw him as he truly was: a tyrant. That he would attempt murder of an unarmed woman for something so... forgive me, _childish_ as flinging mud and taunting him... well, many eyes opened and saw the truth."

"Yay me," I muttered, reaching up to worry my throat for a moment. It didn't hurt or anything, just... I could sort of still imagine those fingers. It was really creepy and unsettling.

"Many truths were revealed," Strider went on, and now his voice seemed kind of awed. "The Orcs, for one. Those of Saruman's making especially. All heard Ûnran call you 'mate,' and I think that is what urged their reaction when you were attacked. They roared challenges and hurled stones at Saruman in your defense. The smaller Orcs followed suit. The Riders as well were inflamed. Gandalf was obliged to break Saruman's hold lest you perish, and the Orcs charge the tower to their ruin. Yet I believe Théoden's men would have joined them."

"That's, uh, pretty wild," I said awkwardly. "Is that why they were trying to help them? The Riders? Because they had that... I don't know, bonding moment?" Gee. Glad I could help, I guess. A bit pricey, but hey, I'll take it.

"Indeed," Strider nodded. "It is a question we must ask ourselves at war's end: Can we find common cause, some manner of agreement with the Orcs? Not just the Uruk-hai, but all Orcs. I confess, I did not know their masters held them in such thrall. I wonder what releasing the Dark Lord's grip on these others will do."

"Guess we'll find out, huh?" I suggested lamely. Because I didn't freaking _know_. At the end of the movie, when the Ring was destroyed, everything sort of went _whoosh_ and the ground swallowed a hell of a lot of them. What would _really_ happen? Would they just die on the spot, have a conniption, or run away screaming? I swear to god, I didn't want to be there to find out.

We were distracted by the entire company halting. Gandalf stopped for another chat with Treebeard, and I must say, I felt truly nailed to the wall by the ancient face on that gigantic walking tree. He peered at me _ever_ so closely, _hooming_ and _homming_ under his breath.

"It is a strange friendship, indeed," he finally said. "Hewers of trees, destroyers of all living things, they are. What do _you_ see in these beasts?"

Feeling all eyes on me, including red ones and yellow ones, I hesitated. What the hell should I say?

"Well, Mr. Treebeard, sir," I said quietly, yet not quiet enough, because everyone had gone completely silent. Thanks a lot, you bastards. Even Ûnran had woken up. "I see... pain and suffering. Their own, not what... they've done to others. Not that they _haven't_ caused it. But... they didn't _know_. No one told them about what was right or wrong, evil or good. Saruman just... made them like tools , and he used them the same way men use hammers. If one broke, he made another. That's all they were to him. But that's not all they _are_."

Swallowing hard, I turned and met the Pitmaster's eyes. He looked at me like I suddenly turned into Zaphod Beeblebrox with an improbability factor of 9 to the power of 223 to 1 against. "I heard you, when you told Ûnran about Kaalob. How you got conscripted against your will by one dark lord after another. You haven't seen your mate, your _wife_, for a hundred years. And you still miss her. Thinking about the woman you lost _still_ hurts." The Pitmaster bowed his head and looked away, like he had acquired an uncomfortable lump in his throat.

"Beasts don't miss their mates," I said quietly, addressing everyone else. "Just saying."

* * *

><p>As we rode out of the valley, we passed loops of the river, and once Théoden was confident we'd found a clean-running stream, he let everyone have a breather and get a drink. The Uruks were still like floppy rag dolls, and their... uh, cousins, I guess, did the fetch-and-carry. Ûnran wasn't up to much more than collapsing on the ground in a heap and sleeping himself. Not much of a honeymoon, if the Floozy was right about the whole mate equals marriage thing. But then, I really wasn't ready for the other part of being a mate. And I <em>mean<em> it, Floozy. Not effing ready.

_I never said you were._

Just so we're clear.

_You want to be, though._

Shut up.

_You're wondering if it would be fun making out with him. I'm thinking it would be._

I am _not_... Dammit. Just... stop badgering me.

_Good grief, just **admit** it, already. He turns you on. Claws and all._

If he _didn't_, I wouldn't have said the _L_ word, now would I?

_Loving **him** and accepting what he **looks** like – claws and teeth, remember – are different things._

He's... never hurt me. Except, you know, the horse thing.

_Which was an accident._

Kind of a big damn accident.

_So you just 'accidentally' want him to have another go at the Ladies?_

Okay, _when_ would we ever get a chance, huh? Look around you. Wall-to-frickin'-wall _people_.

_You managed a sneaky little snog last night..._

It was the middle of the night and we should have been asleep.

_Gotta camp sometime. Be creative. Set up your bedding on the edge of the campsite._

You are, as I've pointed out, one sorry whore. He can't even _walk_!

_So he can't run, either. Go get'im, tiger._

Jesus!

"Tanith?"

Startled, I looked up.

"Forgive me, you seemed... far away," Legolas said, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Sorry, just... thinking." I shook my head to rattle the damned Floozy back into her cage. "What's up?"

Bewildered for a moment, the Elf said cautiously, "Nothing is... up. I only wanted to... apologize."

My brows must have shot straight over the back of my head. "_Really_?"

He sighed. "I have walked beneath the sky of Arda for many thousands of years. Ever have I believed in my heart that Orc-kind were cruel and merciless, without thought but for doing harm and great evil. Yet... in these few days, little more than the drawing of a single breath in the span of my life, I have seen... something else. Something I did not trust, and feared to believe was possible. Surely, if an Orc can know love, then... great wrongs have been done them for many Ages of the Sun."

I wasn't sure what to say, so I just nodded. He looked like this was positively the hardest thing for him to admit or even give a moment of thought to.

"I confess, I wished for you to see through _my_ eyes in this," he continued. "I, who possesses greater wisdom and experience in these matters. I, who has slain the likes of Ûnran and those others in battles uncounted. I, who only sees what he believes is true, not what is before him." Legolas sighed again, hanging his head. "I did not want to think on it. How many have I killed who might have begged mercy? How many might have been as these are, enthralled to do the bidding of a cruel master? How many might have made a different choice, had one been given?"

"Well, you're... seeing it now," I said awkwardly. "That's a start, I guess, right?"

"Still... it is difficult to trust..."

"I don't expect you to," I interrupted. "Just like I don't really expect _them_ to trust, or to shake off what Saruman turned them into in a heartbeat, just because his annoying blather has been shut down. Ûnran, I expect to be calmer and more in control, but he's had the exposure. He's seen what we do, how we act. The others haven't. It'll take them longer to adjust. The Pitmaster and his kind... I couldn't tell you. He's probably hundreds of years old himself, and that's a long time to get set in your ways." I gave Legolas a wry smile, and he chuckled a little self-consciously.

"But as you said, they are able to bond to a mate," the Elf said. "Whether that is love as we know it, or something unique to Orcs, it is not like the beasts we believed them to be. And so... I suppose... they should not be treated as if they are."

"I think that's probably what they'd like," I said softly. "For once."

* * *

><p>Eventually, Gandalf decided it was late enough for us to have a lie-down, and we set up camp. This time, a roaring fire was built, as if they knew I was planning something naughty in the dark with Ûnran. Bastards.<p>

I honestly didn't know what the hell happened. Now that I'd gotten over the big hurdle, it was like my body had thrown the walls down and it was time to reunite the two sides of Berlin, starting with the red light districts. I couldn't even relax. Ûnran lay next to me like a dead thing, snoring quietly, and I sat up, hugging my knees and staring off into space.

There was this annoyingly strong urge to touch him. Just... have my hand on him somewhere. The arm, the shoulder, his chest... for the contact. The reassurance that he was still warm and alive. Maybe... lay next to him and... sort of snuggle a bit. Crap, _he_ was the one with the pack mentality, not me, and I didn't want to be more than a few feet away.

Sighing, I looked around at the members of our Fellowship, all bundled up in blankets and cloaks. Legolas never looked like he was sleeping; I'm sure he _did_, but he never _looked_ like it. Even when he was lying down. Strider, Boromir, and Gandalf were grouped together about as far from Gimli the Lear Jet Snorer as they could get. Somehow, the longer that damn Dwarf was on the march, the louder he got. Merry and Pippin were huddled in a corner under some overhanging brambles, looking like a couple of kids. I could see that Pippin was pretty restless. Probably nervous about the new friends we'd picked up and dragged along.

Just out of the firelight, the Orcs were bedded down with their vigilant tree friends standing watch. There were over a dozen now, keeping order and transporting the Uruk-hai. By the look of things, though, I didn't think even the smaller Orcs had any interest in being pains in the ass. They sort of fell grudgingly into the role of prisoner rather easily. Probably wasn't a whole lot different from being a slave. The Pitmaster alone had gone through two masters; what's a third to him? I suddenly wondered what his real name was, and made a mental note to ask in the morning.

About when I gave up and lay down, I caught sight of Pippin heading off for a potty break, evidently. Man, I could totally understand. Surrounded by water for a couple days, then drinking wine like a homeless person... bound to catch up to you.

Well, I figured there wasn't much left I could do to shock these people, within reason, that is. Obviously, sticking my hand down Ûnran's pants would qualify as a shocker. But hell, doing that to Boromir would, too. They just weren't all that... open around here. But surely, after the 'big announcements' – the mate thing, the love thing – they'd forgive me for an innocent snuggle, right? So I curled up next to Ûnran and laid my head on his shoulder, hand on his heart. He snuffled a little at the disturbance, then settled again with his arm around me.

Looking back at the guys, I noticed Pippin heading back, holding something dark in his arms. I thought that was kind of weird, but didn't really care much. As I watched them, Boromir turned over, and apparently found a root or something because he woke up. Almost immediately, he looked at me and our eyes met.

Holy crap, he looked disgusted. Maybe there was a touch of disappointment in there, maybe a little hurt feelings, but mostly grossed out. I _almost_ retreated off Ûnran, actually thought about stepping back to minimum safe distance, but then I thought, _fuck you, man_. I didn't make any promises to him, I didn't lead him on, I never said a damn word. This booty was _never_ his.

_Yeah, now it's Ûnran's!_

Uh... right. How about if you stop helping, hmm?

_No sense of humor_.

I _have_ a sense of humor, just not...

The silence was broken abruptly by a scream. Talk about scrambling the jets; _everyone_ leaped to their feet. Except the Uruk-hai. They more or less lurched to sitting positions because that's all they had the strength for.

Like he just _knew_ what was going on, Gandalf was across the camp in a heartbeat, throwing a cloak down on something. I stayed by Ûnran, in case... you know... anything big was coming our way.

_So you can see it coming and run?_

Shut the hell up, Brat!

"Pippin!" Gandalf bellowed. "Fool of a Took! What mischief have you done?"

Ah crap. I bolted across the camp and skidded to a halt where Gandalf was kneeling next to the stricken Hobbit. I dropped heavily to my knees on his other side. Merry was beside himself.

"I _told_ him to leave it be! He wouldn't listen!"

The wizard laid a hand over Pippin's forehead and murmured quietly, "Come back, Peregrin Took."

Slowly, the Hobbit came out of it, muttering and whimpering about 'sending for it' and cringing from Gandalf.

It suddenly dawned on me. The idiot boy must have looked into the Palantír. Dammit, I thought he wouldn't get all in its face until we got back to Edoras! But then, I also thought we'd magically appear there seconds after Saruman took a header off the Tower, then have a rousing party complete with drinking games and plastered Dwarf, and none of _that_ happened either.

How was I supposed to make sure I didn't fuck up this world if I kept missing what was going to happen? Good god, why have my ass here in the _first_ place? I _thought_ Saruman was supposed to be killed, but he wasn't, and now I didn't know if that was the way it was _supposed_ to happen, or if I managed to extend the reach of my mobile disaster area and fuck that up, too.

Knowing they all had things well in hand and I was no god damn help whatsoever, I stomped off into the darkness, hugging myself against the chill air and wishing profoundly to be sent back home. I _promised_ Ûnran that super-duper mother fucking bastard-ass dickweed would get his just desserts, and that fuckwit asstard baby kicker would be the one to do it. What _now_, huh? Both shit stirrers were alive and kicking, probably having a few rounds in Saruman's basement bar, bragging about that close shave and chatting up the waitresses.

God, when Ûnran woke up completely and had a chance to realize what happened back there, he'd kick my ass and be completely justified for doing it.

I stopped worrying about it when I ran into a tree, though. To be more specific, I plowed face-first into one of the guard Ents keeping watch over the Orcs and Uruks.

"Um... sorry," I muttered, stepping back and squinting in the darkness. It didn't seem to be affected at all, and didn't acknowledge my presence or my words.

"It don't hear yuh," a growling voice said nearby, and I darted a look around. It was _really_ dark, but I could make out the form of a smaller Orc approaching slowly. "Ain't gonna hurt yuh. I promise, it'll wake right up if I try." Then he cackled, and I knew who he was.

"Pitmaster," I said a bit nervously.

"Where's yer other half, eh?" he asked. "Still down?"

"Yeah." I wasn't sure how to deal with him. I'd seen him whip the daylights out of Ûnran and laugh about it. He wasn't like the Uruk-hai; he had a life before Isengard, and his own way of doing things. I hugged myself protectively and kept a wary eye on him.

Chuckling, he shook his head. "Nah, don't yuh be scared'uh me. Ain't got it in me tonight. Even if I did, these here trees would stop me cold. What's goin' on back there?"

"One of the Hobbits took a peek in Saruman's crystal ball," I said.

The Pitmaster cackled again. "Oughtn't to've done that. Stupid little whelp. Look right into the Eye with that thing, you do. Seen Master at it."

I blinked. Of course, the Orcs would know about it. Good grief, why didn't anyone ask _them_? Gandalf and Strider put their heads together earlier that evening, trying to figure out how Saruman communicated with Sauron. I stayed the hell out of the conversation because... Well... that would be telling secrets, right? But if they'd asked the _Orcs_... Standing _right_ _there_. Knew the ins and outs of everything going on in Isengard...

Except that they're _Orcs_. And nobody asks Orcs what they think.

"Yeah, lesson learned, huh?" I said ruefully.

"Why you fuckin' that whelp, eh?" he asked, and I nearly fell out of my chair. You know, if I'd been sitting down.

Careful. Be very careful.

"Um... that's a... very personal question," I said cautiously. "And... I... that is, we... haven't gone there. Done that."

He smirked and nodded. "Don't blame yuh for not wantin' it from him. Ain't no whiteskin ever _wanted_ what we got." He cackled some more, sounding rather pleased with himself in a bitter old bastard kind of way.

"I do," I said softly. "Ûnran, that is. What Ûnran's got. I... uh... want him."

"That so?" the Pitmaster said, brows shooting up. "Thought you was just makin' fun."

I shook my head. "I'm not. I wasn't. Pitmaster... we shared dreams. I saw him in Isengard, and he saw me... out here. We... sort of... got to know each other pretty well. I guess... eventually... I stopped seeing... an Orc... when I looked at him."

"That what you meant? You was seeing things in Isengard with his eyes?"

Nodding, I replied, "I told my friends about it, too. They don't think it was right, what Saruman did to them. Or you." Smiling a little, I said, "They're looking at you _all_ a lot differently than they ever did before."

"Hmph," he snorted, and scratched his bald head. "Still prisoners, we are."

"You're surprised?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "How many hundreds of years have the two of you been at one another's throat? It'll take time. This is just the first step. They spared your lives, when they would normally have killed all of you. Maybe... when the war's over... things will be different."

"Like how?" he growled.

"Like... maybe they'll let you go free," I suggested. "Free to travel wherever you want to go. Maybe even go look for Kaalob, if you want."

His features twitched a bit. "Likely dead, she is. Or thinkin' _I'm_ dead. Likely fuckin' someone else."

"Or she's waiting for you." Wow, _that_ took a lot of effort to say without sounding sarcastic.

"Maybe," he said, shrugging.

"What's your name?" I asked.

He shot me a suspicious look, then seemed to relax a little. A half smile curved his thin lips. "Dumash. I'll thank yuh to call me Pitmaster, if it's all the same to you."

"If that's what you prefer, sure," I said, stifling a giggle. Good god, did his parents hate _him_.

"Da didn't know Westron," he chuckled.

"What does it mean?"

"One duty," he replied. "Always had that. Just one duty. Keep stupid fuckin' whelps in line."

"Well, when you find your niche... Do what you're good at, right?"

"Suppose," he grunted. Frowning, he eyed me shrewdly. "Ûnran didn't do so bad, I'm guessin'. Findin' you. Yuh don't think like them others."

"They might be starting to think like _me_," I pointed out. "But it's not all them, you know. Don't be an ass and make them treat you the way they used to. It's not just about you and this little handful. It's about the Orcs in Moria, and the ones in Mordor. Not to mention this new bunch here."

"Aye," he agreed, nodding. "Need to be taught who they are, them whelps. Ain't sure myself."

"Something new."

"Aye. New and different."

All of a sudden, I got _that feeling_. Looking around, I tried to see in the dark even more. Beside me, the Pitmaster seemed just as agitated.

"Yuh feel it too, eh?" he asked quietly.

"Nazgûl," I muttered, and looked up. About when I saw it, apparently everyone else figured it out, because the whole camp erupted like a volcano. The Pitmaster high-tailed it back to the 'safety' of the other Orcs, and I made a beeline for Ûnran. He was trying desperately to rise, so I helped him stand and urged him to lean on me.

"Sorry I wasn't here," I said breathlessly, keeping my eyes on the dark shadow streaking across the sky. "Chatting with the Pitmaster."

"Shoulda marked yuh," he growled weakly. "Keep his fuckin' hands off."

"His hands weren't _on_," I snapped impatiently. "Anyway, it doesn't matter _now_."

As soon as the winged terror disappeared on its northward trek, everyone flew into action. Gandalf got up on Shadowfax and rode south as fast as possible, taking Pippin with him. The rest of us hastily scrounged up our crap and mounted up.

"We ride for Helm's Deep," Strider explained quickly to us. "It is clear the Enemy pays a visit to Saruman. Our time is short. Ride fast!"

"Ride, Eorlingas!" Théoden called as he trotted to the front. His men were already in the saddle. The rest of us sort of scrambled amateurishly aboard our horses by comparison. Especially me and Ûnran, since he could barely stand, let alone mount a horse without help. I could just make out the Ents shouldering their grumbling Orcish burdens, then we were off. The Orcs on foot had to really step up the pace to keep up with us this time.

It occurred to me that if I didn't go with Gandalf to Minas Tirith, I'd have to get there the long way with Théoden. Which meant there'd be an ocean of Orcs and trolls between me and the safety of the city. Holy shit. Failing that, I could follow Strider through the Cave of Extremely Pissed Dead Guys.

I didn't know which was worse. Good god, let Gandalf linger a bit in Helm's Deep so we could latch on to the Minas Tirith early morning express!


	32. The Road to Minas Tirith

**The Road to Minas Tirith, Starring Boromir Hope and Ûnran Crosby**

When we finally reached Helm's Deep, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, checking the layout to see if it wanted to get up this frickin' early or go back for a few more winks. I was dead tired, and sort of staggered around in a fog. There was no time to make sure the Orcs and Uruks were taken care of, or to see how the ones from the battle were doing. I was kept so busy grabbing our crap together, I didn't even _remember _to ask if Falthu was still alive. Gandalf rushed about barking orders in one direction, Théoden doing the same in another.

At least Gandalf agreed that Ûnran and I should get our asses to Minas Tirith before all access was shut down. Speed was essential, and since we'd already be hampered by not riding the fastest damn horse in all of Middle Earth, Ûnran got to ride Hasufel alone for once. He wasn't particularly happy about it.

"What, disappointed you won't be grabbing my bits all the way to Gondor?" I teased, and he grinned.

"Wait'll we camp," he threatened, leaning down and nuzzling my cheek. "Be all over your bits."

Teen-induced flutters went wild all over the lower half of my body. Then Boromir came striding over to announce the very rude and unwelcome news that _he'd_ be coming with us. Great. Just what I needed: the brooding, lovesick dweeb glowering at me and my boyfriend all the way. Something told me he wouldn't be the _silent_ fifth wheel. I'd probably get to hear all his opinions on my choices, and have to pry Ûnran off him every other minute. Sounded like a lovely ride.

Even before Gandalf and Pippin departed, we were in the saddle and racing down the ramp. In the half-light of early morning, and under the extreme duress of just _getting_ to the fortress, we missed the battlefield. It just didn't really register. Now that we were entering it again, and the sun was shining feebly low in the east, we could see everything. And there was nothing there.

Wow. Give a couple hundred men the job of groundskeeper, and they do a bang-up job in a really short time. Not a single dead Orc could be seen. Sure, the ground was still pretty churned up; it's not as if it didn't look like a battle even _happened_. As a matter of fact, it looked... sort of... disturbingly _neat_.

I couldn't dwell on it, though. It felt really weird being on a horse without Ûnran at my back. He wasn't far away, but he was _far away_. Not... touching me. Dammit, I sounded like a lovesick dweeb myself.

Floozy, if this is you making me codependent, I'll be pissed. I mean it.

_You're twenty-six and never gotten laid. You've fallen in love with a guy who'd be more than happy to fix that problem. The longer you have to wait for the hot lovin' to start, the more crabby you'll get._

Oh, come _on_.

_Just saying._

* * *

><p>To say the ride back east was a hell of a lot more fun than the westward journey would be an understatement. At least I wasn't living in fear of being gang-banged by every Orc within a hundred miles. Although having to deal with Boromir's cranky ass wasn't my idea of a good time, either.<p>

He never said a damn word the whole day we rode. He wasn't completely unmoved, though. Every once in awhile, I caught his eye, or noticed him giving Ûnran _the look_. You know the one. The go-ahead-and-sleep-you-bastard-so-I-can-introduce-you-to-several-of-your-vital-organs kind of look. Ûnran looked pained, but not because he was getting nasty looks every five minutes. I don't think he even noticed. He wasn't used to riding alone, and had to adjust his seat accordingly. Apparently, he wasn't doing a really good job of it, and had a lot of discomfort going on. Thankfully he was riding Hasufel, the only horse in the Riddermark with even a passing acceptance of him, so he didn't have to do much; that smart animal had long since figured out that his riders were dorks, so he followed whoever looked like they knew what they were doing. Needless to say, neither of _us_.

My new horse was named Blofeld. At least, that's what I thought they said. I'll never grasp their language, those Rohirrim. Anyway, he was quite a different ride than Hasufel, I noticed as I winced with every ton-heavy plod of his hooves. Jesus, if my ass still had its former rounded and perky shape when we reached Minas Tirith, it would be a miracle. I was pretty sure my crotch would never take another pounding, either.

_Better tell Ûnran to wait a bit, then._

Shut up, dammit!

_Mmmm... Ûnran needs another bath, I think... and maybe a helping hand..._

Holy crap, will you shut _up_!

_He's built like a brickhouse._

That's... okay, yes, but...

_Wedding tackle... quite... impressive..._

What... uh... about it? The... uh... tackle... thing...

_He's not small._

I... uh... noticed. Um... Do you think it'll... hurt?

_Oh baby, make it hurt so goooooooood..._

All right, that's enough. Singer! Back the hell off!

_I don't know what you're talking about._

Thankfully, the _horses_ were tired so Boromir decided we should give them a breather and set up camp. The... uh... conversation in my head left me feeling a bit embarrassed when I looked at Ûnran, but I managed to keep it hidden. Visually, anyway. He took one whiff of me and _purred_. _Grinned_ even, the bastard.

"We should not light a fire," Boromir said quietly without looking at either of us. "We are close to the border with Gondor. A fire might attract unwanted guests." He shot Ûnran a pointed look then went off to set out his bedroll.

It was probably the worst possible timing, what with the need for secrecy and being quiet and all, but I _had_ to tell Ûnran about Saruman. If I didn't tell him, he'd hear about it from someone else, then he'd be mad at me for not saying anything... Jesus, I may not be in high school, but sometimes I _felt_ like it.

"Ûnran," I said, grabbing his wrist to keep him back among the horses with me, "we have to talk."

Chuckling, he rumbled, "Talk? Ain't what yuh smell like yuh wanna do."

"Can you ignore it for a second? I'm serious," I admonished. He just laughed a little more.

"Ain't easy," he said. "You're my mate, ain't yuh?" He seemed to deflate a little and bowed his head. "Wanna make love with yuh. It's all I can think about. Givin' you... what little I got."

Sighing, I took hold of his hands. "Ûnran, I... I want that too. Just... I'm not... quite ready. And that's not what I want to talk about. Listen to me, _please_."

"Sorry," he muttered.

I took a deep breath. God dammit, I wished I could see his face more clearly. The moon was up, but it wasn't particularly bright, and we'd ridden well past sunset. Yeah, all this pitch-frickin'-darkness was starting to make me develop pretty good night vision, but I _still_ couldn't see shit.

"Ûnran, I'm _so_ sorry, but... Saruman's still alive," I said unsteadily, and squeezed his hands. "So is that little pustule, Wormtongue. I really thought... Everything I knew... I was just _sure_ they'd kill each other, but... it didn't happen. I'm sorry."

"I know," he replied, his voice a low growl and slightly accusatory. "Gandalf told me before we left. Thought I oughta know."

"I should've told you before now, I know," I said contritely. "But... everything happened so fast, what with the Palantír and the nazgûl... I was a bit distracted."

"'S'okay," he shrugged. "Maybe... they'll still kill each other, stuck in the Tower alone like that."

"One can hope, right?" I replied, and smiled up at him. Holy crap, here they came: the Teen shot a warning across the bow, sending ripples and quivers through my center and down to my toes. Then the Floozy must have gotten in on the action, because that tight pulse of longing erupted between my legs and I almost went down.

You know, lost my balance and fell. Not like... went down on _him_. It wasn't _that_ bad. Crap, people.

"Yuh sure yuh ain't ready?" he murmured, leaning down and nuzzling my neck. "Sure as fuck smells like you are." He released my hands and took hold of my hips, pulling me closer.

"Oh, right," I said shakily, "now is _such_ a perfect time, what with Boring-man the Crank-Master lurking in the shadows and... oh my... likely sharpening his knife... and... dammit..."

His mouth was on mine in a much more forceful manner than the first time, and his arms were _engulfing_ my body. One around the shoulders, the other around the waist. I held onto him just as tightly, and damned if the Floozy didn't hike a leg up and hook it around his thigh. God, it was like I couldn't get his... er... wedding tackle up against my body close enough. _That_ was a new experience; dry-humping a hard man while standing up.

Maybe he wasn't the most experienced with this kind of kissing (as if _I_ was), but he figured it out fast. My insides were quivering like Jell-O and I was pretty damn sure I'd have no objections if he decided it was time to take a more horizontal approach to this embrace. I didn't even hesitate to part my lips and go on a quest to find the Seductive Tongue of the Lustful Orc. Probably because the guardian was already completely under my power, he gave up the goods without a fight.

You know, it's _always_ times like these, when things are getting _really_ good, that some asstard waltzes in and ruins _everything_.

I dimly heard a throat clearing. Then it got louder. Boromir must have done it four times, each with increasing volume and fury, before we acknowledged him and shot apart like magnets of the same polarity.

"That is the most disgusting thing my eyes have ever witnessed," he growled, then spun around and headed back to his bedroll.

"Sorry," Ûnran said uncomfortably. "Didn't mean to..."

"Fuck him," I snapped angrily. My whole body was tingling from the unfulfilled promise of Ûnran's attentions. I didn't need the Floozy to snarkily inform me that the _minute_ I had Ûnran alone behind a locked door...

_Heh heh heh..._

Shut up.

Grumbling under my breath, I stomped over to where Boromir was glowering and gave him the universal eat-shit-and-die look. Then he just _had_ to open his mouth _again_.

"I'll take the first watch, since it would seem you both are worn out from strenuous... activities." Smirking, he launched himself to his feet and all but flounced off.

All right, he didn't _flounce._ You know what I mean.

"I shamed you," Ûnran muttered miserably, and I calmed down a bit.

"No, you didn't," I sighed, unpacking my bedding. "He's just being a spoiled little rich kid. Thinking he can have anything he wants just by being cool." Smoothing out my bedroll and unfolding my blanket, I looked steadily at Ûnran. "I'm not ashamed of you, or what I feel for you. Honestly, this whole time, I haven't given much thought to what other people think."

Which wasn't _entirely_ true, but true enough. Near as I could recall, my issues with getting close to him were entirely internal and required lengthy discussions with the Floozy. Maybe I had a _little_ worry here and there about the perception, but... really, in the end, it came down to 'what did _I_ think about it?' And _I_ thought it was a really swell idea.

Still, Ûnran seemed only partially convinced, and settled himself on his own bedroll in silence. I thought it would take forever for me to wind down from that unfinished make-out session, but within minutes I was out.

* * *

><p><em>It's her choice.<em>

The harsh tone in Ûnran's voice startled me awake, but the low volume made me freeze. Good grief, were those boys up and talking about me? Crap, I was getting damned tired of this sneaking-behind-Tanith's-back-to-discuss-her-lifestyle business. Talk about high school.

"She does not make... wise choices," Boromir growled.

"Might've chosen _you_," Ûnran retorted. I could hear just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"As she should have," Boromir snorted. "I am better suited, and have known her longer than you."

"Have yuh? I remember when she first saw yuh," he snarled. "Could _feel_ it. Had yer chance, and yuh called her liar."

"Her tale was impossible to believe at the time," Boromir said defensively. "I learned later..."

"Don't matter," Ûnran snapped. "She don't forget."

"She has managed to 'forget' the things _you_ have done."

"None to _her_," Ûnran pointed out.

Even with my eyes closed, I could hear Boromir seething. It was the way he breathed, which for some reason I could hear better than Ûnran's steady rumble. He must have been sitting closer to me or something.

"I have endeavored to apologize, but she will not hear me," Boromir said stiffly.

"Too late. She chose me, and I'll never let'er go." His voice took on a menacing quality that both sent chills down my spine and set the Jell-O all aquiver again. "Best keep yer hands the fuck off'er."

"You call her 'mate,'" Boromir hissed. "That is _foul_. To see you... _touching_ her... and you little more than a beast..."

"She don't mind it," Ûnran growled.

"She is _blind_," Boromir snarled. "She has little enough experience in this world. She has not seen enough..."

"Not seen enough?" Ûnran barked incredulously. "Yuh think she ain't seen _enough_? Yuh listened to her? She tell you what she saw through my eyes? The things that were done all around me every fuckin' day?"

"No," Boromir admitted awkwardly. "I was never... in her confidence. Aragorn and Gandalf, she told. Not I." There was a very pregnant silence, then he muttered, "I do not wish to know."

"Be an education for yuh," Ûnran growled quietly. "She ain't stupid, and she ain't blind. Seen enough, she has. Still thinks... I ain't a beast. Sees somethin' in me..." He took a shuddering breath and let it out slowly. "All I can do is... try to be what she thinks I am."

Another uncomfortable silence stretched, then Boromir said, "You have... affection for her. Not just... lust. I never imagined an Orc could feel... such things."

"Master didn't _want_ us feelin' nothin' like that," Ûnran said bitterly. "Didn't want us bein' soft. Or gentle. I had to learn it from all of _you_."

"From watching us," Boromir said.

"Aye," Ûnran acknowledged. "Don't know much about love, but... what I do know... I'd kill for her, _die_ for her. Face my Master alone. For _her_. What would _you_ do for her?"

Boromir took awhile to answer. "I don't know. I have been so... disappointed in her... choice. She favors you... _you_. Were you another man, it would not be so... hard to accept."

"You love'er?"

"I care for her," Boromir replied. "It could become love, perhaps. But it isn't."

"Then back the fuck off," Ûnran snarled through clenched teeth. "She's _mine_."

"Have you lain with her?" Boromir asked, and I swear, I almost launched myself at him. The nerve! That was completely out of line!

"What's that mean?"

"_Slept_ with her," Boromir snapped.

Bless his heart, Ûnran growled at him. "No."

"Take my advice, and _do not_."

"_Why_ not?" Unran snarled. "She is my _mate_. It's... it's what mates _do_."

"Men do not call a woman 'mate,'" Boromir said in what I thought was an unnecessarily superior tone. "She is a _woman_, not an Orc. Nor is she an animal. Among... your kind... what does 'mate' imply?"

"Pitmaster said... a mate is yer other half. Part of you... yuh can't live without."

"Then... that is... a wife," Boromir said awkwardly. I had to bite my lip to keep from freaking out. I guess it was in the back of my mind all along. Certainly known to the damn Floozy. I _did_ marry him back in Isengard. Holy crap. "And you would be... husband. But there is... a ritual. One cannot call a woman 'wife' – or a man 'husband' – without it."

"Then... we do it. The ritual. If that's what Men do."

Now Boromir chuckled, sounding like he was laughing at something silly a little kid just said. "The ritual of marriage is performed by Men. You are not likely to find any willing to join you to Tanith."

"What's it matter, then?" Ûnran said defensively.

"Sleep with her, when you have not been joined as husband and wife," Boromir said a little too triumphantly, "and she is little better than your whore."

Oh, you did _not_ just go there, you son of a bitch!

_Any mud hereabouts?_

Not now, Brat.

"Worse than that," he went on mercilessly, "the abominations you plant in her belly will be bastards. I do not think you want that for her, do you?"

"We ain't... talked about that," Ûnran muttered. Ah, hell no. But I couldn't make myself interrupt. I wanted to know the full load of crap Boromir was feeding him.

"And yet you wish to... _mate_ with her," Boromir sneered. "Without consideration for what may come of it. What it may _do_ to her. She told us how your... issue was brought into the world, however briefly. Cut from the mother's body. Why is that? Are women unable to birth a half-breed Orc in the natural way?"

"Don't... don't know," Ûnran said uncomfortably.

"You had better find out, before you put something like that inside her," Boromir snapped.

"Pitmaster'll know," he said in a low voice.

"Pitmaster?"

"One of the Orcs that survived Isengard," Ûnran explained. "Told me... a lot of things. Things he weren't supposed to tell. Master woulda had his head if he knew. Like... what mates are. There's a lot he could teach us. A lot we could learn from Men, as well. Need both, I reckon. Master didn't give us _nothin'_."

"Perhaps... your path will lead you back there one day," Boromir said a little more nicely, which was odd. I wished I could see their faces, but I kept my eyes closed. "But for now, we must press on. You are most fortunate I am with you. Had you tried to enter Minas Tirith without me, they would have shot you on sight."

"Aye," Ûnran muttered.

"I trust you will behave yourself in my father's city," Boromir warned, and it sounded like he was standing up and stretching. "My word will only protect you so long as you are worthy of it."

I tried not to act nasty to him when he nudged me awake, but honestly, Boromir won the Ass-Munch of the Year award for that little conversation. I was just debating whether to blow my cover and give him a piece of my mind when Ûnran straightened up from folding his blanket and stiffened.

"Orcs," he growled.

No kidding, I almost shit. We were out in the middle of no-frickin'-where, it was pitch dark out, and there were only _three_ of us. It wasn't like we had the Man in Black's head for strategy here. We didn't even have a god damned wheelbarrow.

"Where? What direction?" Boromir asked, all business now that there was something he could stab in the vicinity.

Ûnran tested the air, kind of turning his head in a few different directions before settling on one. "There. Not far. Wind just changed, or I might'uh scented them before now."

"Tanith, stay here with the horses," Boromir told me, like I needed telling. "We'll have a look. Make no sound. We'll be back soon." Motioning for Ûnran to follow, he melted into the darkness in the direction indicated.

Ûnran looked at me for a few moments before joining Boromir. It occurred to me that this was one of those times when telling the man you love that you love him was almost a god damned requirement. But by the time my head got around to that thought, he was already gone.

Within minutes, I was sick with worry. The horses were no comfort; they'd picked up the Orc scent as well and were restlessly stamping their hooves in the dirt. I tried to soothe them as quietly as I could, but I'm sure they could smell my fear. Hell, _I_ could smell it.

Hugging myself, I stared around me, trying to make out shapes, trying to hear something, _anything_ that might tell me what was going on. It was dark as hell, but I could see just enough of the dark plains all around to be scared to death... and I got that weird _déjà vu_ feeling again.

The Mirror showed me here. Galadriel's Mirror. Standing in the middle of the plains, alone and... threatened. Good god. That vision made it seem like shit was going to jump out at me from every direction. Was I really sensing something nasty, or was it my memory of the Mirror that made it that much worse?

Ultimately, I had no warning worth mentioning. The horses were already nervous, so stepping it up a notch was almost undetectable from my perspective. So when the thing hit me going ninety miles an hour, I didn't hear it, see it, smell it, or have any idea what it even _was_.

My face plowed into the turf and my lungs emptied completely from the impact. I was so stunned I couldn't breathe or move, let alone scream. Then its stink caught up to it, and I very nearly pissed myself.

It was an Orc. Oh god.

He flipped me over and pinned me down. It was too dark to see very well, but in such close quarters, his features were difficult to miss. Ugly mother fucker, that's for damn sure. And when he spoke, I was introduced to the true meaning of the word _fetid_.

"Three horses're too many for one man," he snarled in my face, like, _inches_ from my face. If I had any breath, I would've gagged. "Where're your friends, eh?"

Nothing I'd been through up to this point prepared me for the kind of shitless I was scared right now. Even if my lungs _hadn't_ been crushed, and two hundred pounds of Orc _weren't_ lying on top of them, I _still_ wouldn't have been able to respond with more than a squeak. Then he started groping me. Sweet Jesus...

"Gotta blade in here, whiteskin?" he snarled. "Don't want surprises."

And that's just what he got: two very soft handfuls of surprise.

"Not a man at all," he chuckled suddenly, giving the Ladies a rough squeeze. I nearly died of mixed terror and mortification. "My lucky night."

Thankfully, my gasping had brought enough air into my lungs to give me the strength to fight, and I tried to wiggle out from under him. That really didn't work at all; it just gave him the opportunity to maneuver himself between my legs.

That did it, pretty much. The threat to the Precious was dire enough to electrify me. First, I let loose with a shriek that would shatter glass a mile away. Then I got an arm free and pounded the crap out of his face. Not that his appearance would have been noticeably changed in any way.

He wasn't even _trying_ to shut me up, either. Like I could scream all I wanted and nobody would ever hear me. That just made me so much more afraid, and brought out the tears that were too shocked to show themselves earlier.

It was no comfort at all that he'd likely kill me when he was done.

"None'uh that, now," he snarled, and I swear to god, he clamped his teeth down on my throat. I went still and quiet immediately like a downed prey animal. He didn't really dig in too deeply, but it wasn't necessary; the pressure was enough to keep me from fighting.

Until he ripped my pants down the side seam from waist to knee. I let loose another scream right next to his ear that made him snarl and tighten his grip. Then I heard a familiar roar.

The Orc didn't even get a chance to let go of my neck when Ûnran barrelled into him. The first thing I did when the crushing weight was removed was check to make sure I still had some throat left. I nearly leaped into the stratosphere when Boromir dropped to his knees and gathered me in his arms.

Jesus, didn't he know I didn't want _anyone_ touching me after that?

I noted in a sort of detached way that I was still screaming and crying. I hadn't even realized, I suppose, that I was _that_ hysterical. I even pushed Boromir away, but he stayed close, like he wanted to be near in case I flew apart. Apparently I didn't notice that my shirt was ripped open in the front, either, because it came as a surprise that I was trying to hold the pieces together.

It was like I had pulled away from myself, retreated to a safe minimum distance so it wouldn't be _me_ that was getting raped. All that was left in there was something primitive and irrational, lashing out at anything that came near, and I couldn't get back. I didn't even _want_ to at the moment.

The Orc that attacked me was practically a grease spot on the grass at this point, and _still_ Ûnran tore at the corpse in a mindless fury. I swear, there were guts and organs flying in all directions, sort of like that scene from _Two Towers_ when Uglûk informed everyone that meat was back on the menu.

I hadn't seen him deal with another Orc so violently before, even when one dared to touch his bones. There was no comparison. It occurred to me in that giddy, freaked out way of someone who's suffered a huge shock, that I must rank higher than his bones.

After awhile, and I had no idea how long that 'while' was, he calmed and left the pile of Orc bits to see if I was all right. I couldn't help it; in the dark, and so soon after... and how violently he reacted... I cringed from him. My mind was still in that dark, hunted place, trying to huddle in a corner and keep potential enemies at a distance. It went beyond 'Man bad'; my attacker wasn't a man, and the feral someone in my head said, 'Orc bad,' and tried to get away.

Scooting back, I bumped up against Boromir because he was _there_, like a wall behind me. I couldn't talk to it right now; there was no reasoning with it, either. The one I loved was _one of them_, and if he touched me, I'd scream.


	33. Freudian Slip Down the Rabbit Hole

**Freudian Slip Down the Rabbit Hole**

_Somehow, I'm on a horse, riding endlessly over dark plainsland. My body automatically accounts for the movement, automatically keeps me balanced. I'm wearing different clothes, a shirt and trousers that aren't torn, that don't smell like..._

_There are two others. A man I know, who looks at me with worry etched into his features. Keeps looking at me, as if I'm a bomb ticking away._

_The other... I don't want to look at him. He's... dark. Looking at him makes me see **the other one**. I **smell** the other one, feel the claws, the teeth... I don't want to look at him._

_I see all this through the windows, for I'm in a house that has been cleared out. No furniture, no family, nothing. Walking down the echoing halls, I find doors that are closed, locked. I recognize the Floozy's door; it's covered with leather and lace, and I hear for a moment Stevie Nicks's voice. Her door isn't locked, but I don't want to open it. I just... can't._

_Further on, I find the Singer's door, shifting its decoration in a frantic mix of colors and moods. I hear her humming inside, something tuneless, like someone would sing just to fill the silence._

_The Teen's door is open, but there's nothing inside. There are bits of paper on the walls, as if she tore her posters down before she ran off. I hug myself and cry in here for some reason._

_I don't know where the Brat's room is._

_Back in the front room, there's a huge window, one of those picture windows, and through it I can see myself riding that horse through the night. I don't want to look at the front door. There's someone there, standing with her arms folded, partially hidden by shadows. She guards the door and won't let me out. Not that I really want to leave at the moment. I know I'm... safe here. More or less._

* * *

><p>I didn't even remember how I ended up on Blowfeld, trailing after Boromir and Ûnran at a steady canter. We <em>had<em> to keep moving, that's about all I registered. I had a vague recollection of Boromir handing me some spare clothes from my pack, and this time when I changed, he didn't try to sneak a peek. I could tell Ûnran was miserable; I'd cringed from him and everytime he looked at me, I flinched.

Boromir wasn't faring much better. I didn't want _him_ anywhere near me, either. He practically had to toss the clothes to me, and I sort of growled at him when he tried to help me mount.

God, even having a _horse_ between my legs made me uncomfortable.

It wasn't Ûnran, dammit. _He_ didn't do it. _He_ never even hinted at... well, okay, _yes_, he told me damn near every day that he wanted sex.

But it wasn't... he didn't... Ûnran would _never_ do what that other one... he just _wouldn't_.

_Don't matter._

Excuse me?

_Orc. All same._

Um...

_Man. All same._

That's... not true. These guys... Boromir, Ûnran... I don't think...

_Don't matter._

Great. Now there was _another_ voice in my head. Look, Ûnran didn't do this to me. He's never even _tried_. He's always been very restrained. I know he wants... but he doesn't _take_.

_Don't matter. Look._

For a moment, I was back at our camp and that Orc was on top of me. It was so vivid, so real, I nearly screamed. Then I was in the saddle again like before.

Don't you _dare_ do that again.

_Remember. Orc bad._

Not... _all_ of them. I _know_ they aren't.

_Look._

And I was standing next to Ûnran while he raped that woman in the pits. He was staring off into space, likely thinking about... me... Oh my god.

_See? Orc bad. All Orcs bad. Stay away from Orc._

Pushing this new voice away, I focused on riding again. It wasn't the same, dammit. Ûnran had been nothing but gentle with me. He wouldn't. He just _wouldn't_.

Would he?

I was so lost in my own head I didn't register that we'd ridden through the night and an entire day. We must have stopped to rest here and there along the way, but I honestly couldn't remember. It was like my mind was somewhere else entirely, and my body was on auto pilot. Now it was dark again, and we had to make camp and get some sleep.

For a moment, I was at a loss. I wanted to put my bedroll near Ûnran. I just... really wanted him near. A little flash of memory, of me sitting curled in his lap in the caves with his strong arms around me protectively while the world ended above us... I wanted that back. I _needed_ it. But this new sort of grunting presence swooped in and waved that memory away like an annoying insect.

So I laid out my bedding about ten feet away from him, and ten feet away from Boromir. _He_ wasn't able to look at me, just sort of keeping his head down to avoid provoking me. Maybe I _was_ a bomb about to go off.

The true suckage of this Middle Earth bullshit sank in as I lay there staring at the ridiculous number of stars above. There was _no time_. None. Pain had to wait. Love had to wait. We had to be somewhere five minutes ago, all the time. If we stopped for a minute to wallow in self-pity or have an innocent snuggle, thousands of people would die. We couldn't ever be alone, truly _alone_, Ûnran and I; there were always people coming and going, looking at him like he was _that Orc_ about to jump me in the dark.

_Orc bad_.

Shut up, Grunt. Ûnran _not_ bad. So there.

_Orc bad. Orc want fuck, Orc take fuck. Wait. See._

No. It isn't going to be like that. He's just as afraid of it as I am.

_No fear. Only fuck. Wait. See._

I didn't particularly like Grunt, but it was a wrench to pull out of my own head and pay attention to what was going on around me. The boys were talking. I could hear snatches of conversation as I warred with the Grunt for control. She didn't seem willing to let me back out into the world. I suppose in her way she was protecting me, but it wasn't helping. I wanted... _needed_... Ûnran. But I couldn't reach him. Grunt was in the way.

"... surprised me. I confess, I... expected you to... Honestly, I thought you'd turn on me back there..."

"... enemies're _my_ enemies. Load of fuckin' _snaga_ anyway..."

"... thank you, I suppose. I... confess I did not see that Orc until you slew it. He might have..."

"... got'em all, then. If the horsemen come through here, won't nobody be 'round to report it..."

"... in time. Had we been a moment delayed..."

"... hates me now. Don't wanna let me near'er. What do I do? She don't look at me, don't hear me..."

"... what happened back there. Perhaps she's in shock. Being attacked, then seeing you... I confess, even _I_ was made ill by that..."

"... remember nothin'. Just... got'im off'er, then he was torn to fuckin' pieces. Didn't even know I was doin' it..."

"... heard of this. Sometimes men will lose themselves in a battle rage and remember nothing after..."

"... might hurt'er, and not know I'm doin' it. I'm... scared, now. Don't know where that come from: Orc, Man..."

"... either one. As I said, such things happen to Men as well..."

"... wanna do that ever again. Don't care _what_ the fuck's goin' on... 'Less... it's her. Somethin' goin' after _her_..."

"... more to you than... just a mate, doesn't she?..."

"... my _world_. Without'er, there ain't nothin'. I got nothin'. Deserve nothin'. And... I ain't _worth_ nothin'..."

Let me go, Grunt. Please. I'm not blind _or_ stupid; Ûnran didn't do a thing to me, _Boromir_ didn't do anything. I shouldn't punish them for trying to help me.

I need Ûnran as much as he needs me. _Please_.

_Orc bad. Sleep. Forget._

Floozy? Where are you? Talk some sense into her, will you?

...

So I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. It was worse than when I dreamed of Ûnran. I saw _that Orc_, felt his clawed hands tearing my clothing, choked as his jaw crushed my windpipe, gagged from his putrid breath, felt _that_ pushing its way to the Precious, getting closer than the real Orc ever did...

Jerking awake, I looked around frantically, and met Ûnran's eyes across the camp. Either he couldn't sleep or it was his turn to keep watch. For a moment, I felt able to rise and go to him. His expression was so agonized, so badly in need...

_ORC BAD._

And I sank back into my bedding. I think if I'd been able to burrow into the ground, the Grunt would have made me do it. Instead, I pulled the blanket over my head and cried.

* * *

><p>I didn't sleep a wink all night. In the morning, before the sun was even up, we were back in the saddle and hoofing it big time to Minas Tirith. Thank goodness Ûnran asked if we were there yet, like a good little kid. According to Boromir, we were half a day's ride from the city. For a moment, the Grunt apparently relaxed her guard; I was able to wistfully anticipate seeing the White City and comparing it to Jackson's version. I even stole a glance at Ûnran, cutting such a handsome figure on Hasufel, his long hair streaming behind him, broad shoulders and muscular body moving with the horse's rhythm...<p>

_You remember. Hold on to it._

Floozy?

_Orc BAD. Forget._

Great. Battle of the ids. Listen, ladies, why don't you two duke it out somewhere else? Leave me the hell out of it.

_You'll never get rid of her. She'll always be here with all of us._

Oh yeah? Well, where's the Teen, then?

_Gone. Lost. Let things in. Trust too much. Good riddance._

That... makes me sad. No more flutters? No more... girlie giggles?

_It's just you and me, hon. Some of those feelings were from me. I've still got you covered. Just open the door._

Is it... that simple? As simple as opening a door?

_Well, I'd give you shoes to click together, but that's been done to death._

Okay. So... where's this door?

_Come inside and I'll show you..._

* * *

><p><em>The house isn't quite so dark and empty. The wooden floors now have a few throw rugs. There's a cushy-looking couch in front of a fireplace, but no fire. Not yet.<em>

_Through the big window, I can see myself still riding the horse with Boromir and Ûnran ahead of me. Off in the distance, built into the side of a tall mountain, the sun glints off the white stone of a huge city._

_By the door here in the house, Grunt is still standing guard._

_"You don't need to be there anymore," I tell her. "It's okay. **I'm** okay. If I... need you again, I'll call you. Okay?"_

_"Orc bad."_

_"Some, yeah. But not **him**. Just... uh... go to your room. It'll be okay."_

_Grunt sort of grumbles under her breath. She lingers for several minutes that seem to stretch, but I'm patient. I wait her out. There's no rushing these things._

_When she steps out of the shadows, I'm not surprised to see she looks just like me, as if I'm gazing in a mirror. Unkempt and dressed in furs, but **me** nonetheless._

_Sighing, she leaves the foyer and stomps up the stairs, making sure I hear every single thud of her feet. Reminding me that she doesn't want to leave me unguarded. That this isn't because **she** wants it._

_I consider just flinging the front door open and walking out, but not quite yet. I climb the stairs and find myself in front of the leather and lace door. Because my mom raised me like that, I knock even though I know it's me in there._

_"Come in," my Floozy self says. I open her door._

_The room is so... normal-looking, I'm momentarily surprised. Floozy chuckles._

_"What did you expect? A brothel?"_

_"I guess I assumed..."_

_"You're not like that. You want **these** things, not those. A comfortable bed without all the frills. Certainly nothing kinky like mirrors overhead. A few candles, but not so many you burn the house down. Comfort. Closeness. Him."_

_I look at the bed, and Ûnran is sitting there, reclining against the headboard. He's actually dressed. I thought if he was in the Floozy's room, he'd be naked._

_"This is what you want **right now**. Go to him. He's waiting."_

_Nodding, I turn around and head back downstairs. I leave the Floozy's door open. There's nothing to fear in there._

_My hand hovers over the front doorknob. I watch it clench into a fist a few times. Then I grab the doorknob and twist. The door opens, and there is darkness._

* * *

><p>Looking up, I wondered if I missed another damn day. The skies were filled with heavy black clouds, and I felt like I was being smothered under a blanket. It couldn't possibly be later than mid-day, but it looked like midnight.<p>

"Where are we?" I asked loud enough to be heard over the pounding of the horses' hooves.

Boromir and Ûnran both twisted in their saddles and stared at me for a second.

"Almost there," Ûnran said, his voice a little shaky.

"If we keep this pace, we should be inside the gates in an hour," Boromir added.

"What's, uh... what's the deal with the weather?"

"I'm not certain," Boromir replied. "It has been like this since dawn. I suppose... you do not recall?"

"I haven't been myself lately," I said awkwardly.

It was actually a relief that neither of them questioned me further. Even though I really wanted a woman to talk to, I didn't want to discuss my feelings right now. I sort of felt like I'd done that.

Minas Tirith was _big_. Like... _massive_. It was a tiered city, just like in the movie. Definitely looked like it would be a tough nut to crack for an invasion force. That made me feel pretty good, actually. Relieved.

When we got within sight of the gates, the place was in an uproar. A small party of mounted men came out to meet us.

"Hold! Who comes... Commander!" the lead man cried, recognizing Boromir. As they got closer, they saw Ûnran and immediately drew their swords.

Before I could say anything, Boromir raised his hand. "Stay! Be at ease. He is no enemy. We come from Rohan. Has Mithrandir arrived?"

_That_ came as a surprise, but something at the back of my mind seemed _un_surprised, if that makes sense. Regardless, I pulled Blowfeld up alongside Hasufel, just in case. Ûnran looked at me so hopefully, I almost reached for him. But we were under the watchful eyes of several soldiers who didn't know about the two of us. Probably not a good idea to spring it on them suddenly.

"The White Rider is here, my lord," he said, flicking his eyes warily between Boromir and Ûnran. I barely registered on his radar, but I probably looked like a scruffy guy by this point anyway. "Only a scant few hours past, he saw to the safety of your brother. He is with your father now."

Wheeling his horse around, the man gestured to his fellows, and soon they were surrounding us. I was immediately on my guard as they escorted us through the gates.

"Tell me what defenses are being prepared," Boromir questioned the soldier, and before I knew it, he was off his horse and striding away with the guy, heads together, making plans. They disappeared inside a small building nearby.

Lovely. Did he think one little 'not an enemy' was going to be our free pass to the top? Holy shit!

"Are you... Tanith?" a man said beside me. I looked down at him, and swallowed. He wasn't dressed in the armor of the soldiers milling around the gates; he was wearing, I assumed, the steward's livery. "I was told to bring you to the Citadel upon your arrival."

Dismounting nervously, I fidgeted a bit while a stableboy came to get our horses. Ûnran stood next to me, probably trying not to look threatening, even though it was really a lost cause. "Him too, I assume?" I asked, jerking my head toward the Orc.

The man looked like his preferred response would include mention of dungeons and/or sewers, but he mastered himself. "You and your... companion are to be escorted to the Tower of Ecthelion immediately. Please follow me."

Minas Tirith was, as I mentioned, _huge_. It was the kind of city that demanded mass transit. I kept hoping there'd be a pony cart, a bicycle, a rickshaw, _anything_. My feet were killing me before we made it up to the third level. After a couple of days in the saddle, even though I wasn't entirely _there_ the whole time, my knees were wobbly enough. Every step felt way heavier than normal as well.

When we _finally_ passed through the seventh gate to the seventh level of hell, I was looking forward to a nap. Maybe a quiet cuddle. A chance to reassure Ûnran that I didn't hate him or blame him for anything. But as I'd come to realize, no one was going to give me the time I needed for that. Maybe it was time to _take_ it.

Gandalf and Pippin came out of the Tower to greet us. Seeing the wizard... oh my god, I just threw myself into his arms and cried. I hadn't felt it coming, it just sort of exploded out of me. He was like a granddad, a father, a mentor, a friend... In ways Ûnran wasn't and could never be. And I didn't want him to fill some of those roles, really. He was something else entirely.

"Are you well, Tanith?" Gandalf asked worriedly when the tears petered out like a brief squall. Now that I'd finished raining on Gandalf, Pippin dove in for a hug around my knees. I bent over to return his embrace.

"I'm just... really glad to see you," I replied lamely. Glancing at Ûnran, I saw he was looking away, trying not to be affected by what I did.

"What has happened to you?" Gandalf whispered, and I realized my throat wasn't very well hidden. He could probably see the teeth marks...

"We were... there were Orcs," I said shakily. He looked to Ûnran, and thank god he had a question on his face instead of an accusation.

"Tanith?" Pippin asked, looking at my face searchingly. I found I couldn't meet his eyes for more than a second. "You... aren't all that well, are you?"

"I'm getting better, Pip," I said as bravely as I could.

"Found some scouts," Ûnran grunted stiffly. "Killed'em all. One got at'er, but... he's dead now."

"I see," Gandalf said quietly. I had a feeling more questions were going to be asked later, but I didn't give a crap right now. "Where is Boromir? Denethor believes him dead. I did not wish to deceive him if..."

"He's okay," I said quickly. "He found some boys to talk war with downstairs and disappeared."

Sighing with relief, Gandalf nodded. "How like him, to think of the city's defenses above his own worries. Come now, Denethor wishes to meet you both."

I grabbed Gandalf's sleeve as he turned away. "I want a room, Gandalf. For _us_. I'm damn tired of not being able to talk to him or be alone with him. Can you do that?"

"Tanith, were he a man, it would be considered improper at the very least, but because he is an Orc..." he began, and I held up a hand.

"I don't give a shit, Gandalf," I said firmly. "I'm an adult. I'll bet they casually marry their daughters off at twelve around here. I just want him close. I don't... I don't trust these people. If he's out of my sight... something may happen, and I won't be there to help him. Please." Closing my eyes for a second, I felt my chin trembling. "Gandalf, I don't want to be alone, either. I'm... I'm scared. I want him close to me."

Smiling kindly, he put his hand on my shoulder. "I will do what I am able, if that is your wish."

"Thanks."

Then we went up the steps into the throneroom. It was a lot like the movie, with black marble pillars interspersed with white stone statues of grim-faced men. We followed Gandalf's confident strides and Pippin's trotting feet down the center aisle. At the end of the walkway, there was a dais with a huge, ornate throne on it, and at the bottom of the dais on a broad step was a smaller black throne.

Uh... whoa. Denethor, baby. You look... about as far from fabulous as a man can get. Stringy hair hung around his face and he was sort of hunched in his chair. My eyes widened; how the hell did he get Boromir's horn?

Just like in the movie, it was split in two, and he was cradling it in his lap like an infant.

"I beg you for words that deny the evidence I bear," he growled, glaring up at Gandalf, "and you fetch hither a servant of the Shadow?"

"Words you shall hear, Steward of Gondor," Gandalf replied. "Your son lives. Boromir brought Tanith and Ûnran to Minas Tirith, and even now plans the city's defense. I expect he will seek your counsel soon enough."

Denethor seemed to relax a hair. "Why would he bring... _that_... to my city? What possible use is it?"

I felt like going off on the old bastard, but Gandalf shot me a warning look.

"He is like all those cast upon the rocks when war comes," Gandalf said. "He seeks refuge, and by word and deed, he has earned the trust of not only this woman, but your son as well."

Now the Steward looked me up and down as if he'd just noticed I was there. "A woman in the guise of a man? What means this?"

"She is Tanith Walker, and has traveled with the Company from their first steps out of the Shire to his place," Gandalf said sternly. "A companion to your new Guard of the Citadel, Peregrin Took."

"Indeed," Denethor growled, then sort of lurched off the chair to stand. The look he was giving Ûnran... no wait, _us.._. Maybe asking for a double room wasn't a good idea.

"Denethor, they are weary from a long journey," Gandalf gently prompted.

"Yes," he replied, shaking himself out of whatever set of thoughts were running rampant in that twisted little mind of his. "Peregrin, see Miss Walker to her rooms. I believe you oversaw their preparation yestereve?"

"I did, sir," Pippin nodded.

"Very well," he nodded. "I give you leave to escort her there. Tarry not! I may have need of you after."

"And Ûnran?" Gandalf asked pointedly.

Denethor sneered. "The stables on the sixth level are fine enough for the likes of _it_."

Almost like an involuntary response, Ûnran growled under his breath beside me. I inhaled, ready to cut loose a volley of loud and probably not very ladylike protestations, but Gandalf beat me to it.

"There is no cause to treat this Uruk as enemy, Denethor," he scolded. "Nor as animal. He has proven himself worthy of trust and respect. If you require it, you may call upon your eldest son, Boromir, to bear witness to his worth, for I daresay none know it better."

I never really liked listening to my parents fight. They didn't do it often, but when they did, I'd plug up my ears and sing _la la la la_ to drown them out. Now was that kind of thing, with the two grumpy old men tearing each other a verbal new one over whether to house an Orc on the seventh tier with the honored guests, the sixth level with the honored horses, or the first level in the drunk tank. Fingers in the ears was a huge temptation, except I'd probably look like a four-year-old if I did it.

Instead, I looked over at Ûnran. He was a little cross, I could tell, but maybe humbled by the defense Gandalf was throwing up for him as well. Just looking at him, when I couldn't do it for two days...

I reached over and took his hand. Our eyes met, and everything else just seemed... okay again.


	34. Every Breath We Drew Was Hallelujah

**Every Breath We Drew Was Hallelujah**

In retrospect, of course, what I got was just about all I should have hoped for. Or rather, what _Û__nran_ got. Maybe what _he_ got was beyond even Denethor's allowance on a good day, much less one that had seen his younger son barely outrun a pair of flying-critter-mounted Nazgûl, and his older-believed-dead-because-there's-no-way-the-Great-Horn-of-Awesomeness-could-have-been-broken-if-he-was-still-alive son suddenly arriving on the doorstep without warning in the company of an Orc. I'll bet he was a mite stressed. Probably thought the End was Nigh. So the Steward's 'generosity' was only grudgingly elevated beyond 'dungeon' after strong opposition from an old man he obviously didn't much care for to begin with.

I didn't give a shit about their personal history. I wanted a room with a bath, chop-chop. And an Orc installed, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. Apparently, amenities like _that_ were a bit much, so I had to settle for a bath with no roommate. Ûnran, poor bastard, had to bunk up with the servants. Not even the house servants who fetched coffee and slippers, but the ones who cleaned the toilets. The ones who barely rated a room on the seventh floor, and only because it made getting to work every day a lot more convenient _for the guards at the seventh gate_.

So we dragged ourselves out of the throne room in the wake of our respective guides. I gave Ûnran one pitifully longing look, then shuffled after Pippin and this winsome little slip of a thing who probably was all of twelve or thirteen. I think her name was Ephedrine or something. It was hard to hear, she was so soft-spoken. I just called her Iffy, mostly because I wasn't sure about her. She kept looking at me like I was weirder than your average woman from 'foreign parts.'

Pippin's frequent glances made me feel pretty bad. There was a whole bunch of worry there, and it struck me that if anyone would recognize the departure of the Teen, it would be someone as young as Pippin. Edging closer to me, he whispered so Iffy wouldn't hear, "You'll be safe here. I promise."

I gave him a smile that was likely a bit strained. "I know. I'd feel safer with _him_, though."

Nodding sympathetically, he saw me to the door of my quarters and gave me another hug before returning to the Steward. I entered the little suite of rooms and had a look around. It wasn't richly appointed or bare of decoration; the sitting room had a cozy little fireplace and small loveseat. The bedroom was through a fancily-carved door, and was equipped with a full-sized bed with tall posts and those drapes you see in medieval romances. A tall cabinet was on one wall, and Iffy informed me it was a wardrobe. A narrow door in the corner led to my own personal outhouse. I vaguely recalled dad's research into these things, and thought maybe this little antechamber was called a garderobe. Regardless, it was a toilet that dropped shit out a hole in the side of the castle. I suddenly realized how lucky we were to be on the _top_ tier of the city.

Young she might have been, but little Iffy knew her business, and got right on it. I was barely done with a personal tour of the sitting room and little bedroom of my quarters when she had servants parading through with a bathtub and buckets of steaming water. Talking to me, she was demure and full of 'yes ma'am's and 'no ma'am's. Give her a troop to direct, and she was a little general. I was quite impressed, and just stayed the hell out of the way.

Shooing everyone out, Iffy turned to me and resumed her meek little girl persona.

"My lady, do you require assistance with your clothing?"

I was sort of startled by being addressed finally, and had to cover it. "Uh... no. Not really. Nothing like a corset happening here. Just... man pants."

Her eyes twinkled. "If it would not be too bold, ma'am, I have not seen a lady such as yourself dressed so... differently."

"Well, where I come from, we _all_ dress like this, pretty much," I said, plucking at the tunic and pants. "Sort of. I've never been a lover of dresses, I suppose. Pants are pretty handy around here, though. All the horseback riding. Running around in swamps and forests. Getting chased by Ringwraiths and Orcs..."

An involuntary shudder shot through me, and I faltered. Looking like a man only bought me a couple seconds of expecting simple death at the hands of an Orc; had I worn a dress, there wouldn't have been any hesitation at all...

Stop it, Grunt. I know, okay? I know. Let it go.

"May I ask...," Iffy said timidly, her eyes down, hands wringing a bit in front of her.

"He's a friend," I said with a sigh. She looked up at me with wide eyes. "I know that comes as a shock. You probably grew up on stories about how... bad they are. They _can_ be. But so can _we_. Pay a human enough money, and he'll turn into a real piece of crap right before your eyes. Orcs don't get paid, they don't get promised anything like land or riches. They just get enslaved and pointed at targets. Ûnran, the Orc who came with me, was one of those. Just... a slave without options. Until I came along and gave him one." I shrugged. I'd regurgitated it too many times to really feel like going into it now. Dammit, he'd made it to the seventh tier of the most anti-Orc city in all of Middle Earth. If you still can't trust him, people, just let us leave in peace, okay?

Iffy blushed and ducked her head again. "Forgive me, ma'am, but I saw the look you gave him. Begging your pardon, but... I think you've given him more than just an 'option.'" Then her head shot up and her eyes flared. She slapped her hands over her mouth so I barely understood what she said next. "I am _so_ sorry! I did not mean to imply...! Please do not be angry with me!"

Laughing and rolling my eyes, I sat on the little divan and started pulling off my gross boots. "I'm not upset. Good grief. It's probably written all over _both_ our faces. Somehow or other, we... well, believe it or not, we fell in love. Weird and gross as that may seem to you, that's what happened." Sighing again, I glanced up at her. The blush was still there, but now she had a sympathetic look on her face. "Because of what he is, nobody's _ever_ let us be alone for five minutes. Can you imagine that? Forget he's an Orc for a second. Someone just... captures your heart, and all you can think about is spending time with him. Even just to _talk,_ or hold his hand... And you _can't_. People just won't... go... _away_. It's worse than if, say, your father and his father weren't on speaking terms, so your dad puts his foot down and won't let you talk to 'that man's son.' It's more like your families have been engaged in open and violent _war_ for too many generations to count, and... even _talking_ to him, or waving at him in the street, or... _looking_ at him will get him killed. No matter what he may personally have done to _anyone_. None of that matters. It's what his _people_ have done, not him. It's what his _masters_ have done, not _him_. And nothing you say, nothing he _does_, can change _anyone's_ mind. _Ever_."

When I paused to take a breath, Iffy was kneeling in front of me, holding my hands and looking up into my face with such a sad expression, I just lost it. Leave it to a teenager to understand thwarted love. It was like I was looking at the Teen, ripped from my mind by an act of violence and dropped down in front of me. I would never have that look of innocence on my face again, never feel like I could be safe and invincible because... it's _me_. Nothing like that happens to _me_.

Well, it does, or can. Easily. Maybe next time, nobody will hear me scream, or they'll be too far away to get there in time. Maybe...

All right, Grunt, that's enough. You've had your say, now back off.

Iffy squeezed my hands, bringing me back to _now_. "I understand, my lady. Truly. And I am so sorry. Perhaps... you will see him tomorrow, when you are rested."

I shrugged and nodded, wiping tears away and getting undressed. She hung around, keeping the water hot for me by bringing in fresh buckets periodically. It was the first opportunity I'd had to thoroughly wash that Orc's stink off me. Not that I could really smell it anymore, but I could _feel_ it. I had to scrub really hard before I _stopped_ feeling it.

Thank god for Gondorian hospitality. The wardrobe in the bedroom had an array of outfits, for both men and women, just in case. Simple and utilitarian, just the way I like them. More importantly at the moment, there was a white nightgown with an abundance of frilly lace around the edges. This bit of linen jammies was made by someone who firmly believed that ankles were far more dangerously sexy than breasts, because the length swept the floor so not even my toes could peek out, but the neckline plunged rather low in the front, leaving quite a broad expanse of hilly landscape with a deep ravine delving into mysterious darkness. In other words, major-ass cleavage. One little tug and the Ladies would be free to storm the walls of any man fortress that happened to be nearby.

I swear, the Floozy nudged me as I stared at myself in the mirror.

_Wish he was here, don't you?_

Yeah. I do. I think he's more than earned a round of boob pillow.

_Got a nice one there. I'm sure he'd be very comfortable._

Not too fancy, you think? I mean, he's an Orc. Maybe he won't appreciate the finer things.

_He's a male. He probably won't even notice the frillies._

Well, I can dream all I want, he's not here, nor _will_ he be anytime soon.

Sighing, I turned away from the mirror and thanked Iffy for her help. She curtsied and directed the troops once more in removing the bath. After about ten minutes of flurry, I was finally alone.

Minas Tirith. It finally hit me. I was on the top level of the most formidable city in Gondor. Going to the door, I quickly locked it. I just couldn't bring myself to trust anyone anymore.

* * *

><p>I was rudely woken from my nightmare-plagued sleep by a furious banging on the door of my quarters. My first reaction was to freeze in panic. Who the hell could that be, and what disaster was coming next? Jesus, we'd only just gotten here.<p>

Dragging myself out of bed, I went to the door and hesitated before unlocking it. The pounding was insistent, with frequent doorknob rattling in between rounds. Whoever was out there was pretty desperate, it sounded like. Not knock-down-the-door kind of desperate, but please-open-up desperate.

So against my better judgment and Grunt's vociferous protests, I opened the door. At first, the dark figure on my doorstep scared the crap out of me and reminded me... Then he spoke.

"Tanith, it's _me_," he said, and I almost dissolved with relief. "It's Ûnran."

"Whuh... how did...," I sputtered, then I shook my head to clear it. "Never mind, get _in_ here." With that, I grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him into the room. Then I did the typical spy movie thing of poking my head out, looking in all directions to make sure he wasn't followed, then closed and locked the door.

It was really him. I realized I was trembling all over, the kind of shaking that will only still when the thing you want is in your arms. But Grunt was still there, throwing up memories like the bitch she was. My eyes went to his claws and looked away again. I swallowed hard.

Give me a minute, Floozy.

_Take your time._

"How did you get here?" I asked lamely to fill the silence. He hadn't taken his eyes off me. Or maybe it was the cleavage. I'm not really sure; the fire had all but gone out in the sitting room and it was pretty dark in there. "I didn't think they'd tell you what room I was in."

"They didn't," he confirmed. "Had to follow my nose." He sort of half smiled with a little embarrassment.

"It doesn't matter," I said softly. "I'm glad you're here. That's... that's all that matters." Quite suddenly, my arms were around his neck, my head on his shoulder, and I didn't think I'd move from that place if the city were to crumble to dust around us. Ûnran's arms around me felt a hundred times better than I remembered from the cave. I found myself crying again, just soaking his shoulder. He stroked my back and my hair, murmuring in my ear. I realized after a bit that he was apologizing, over and over. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me, I don't want to hurt you, I would never hurt you, I'll never do that again..._

Drawing back from him, I looked in his eyes. "Ûnran, I _want_ you here tonight. I'm _glad_ you're here. I'm not afraid of you."

"I am," he muttered. "Lost my head. Don't wanna do that again."

Gently caressing his cheek, I smiled a little. "You saved me, Ûnran. You're... my hero."

His face sort of twitched a bit and he chuckled. "Some 'hero.'"

"No, you are," I insisted. "You stopped something from happening that... God, Ûnran, just thinking about it..." I shuddered and held him close again. I couldn't get enough of holding him. His arms around me felt so sturdy and strong... so _right_. "You saved something that... I want to give _you_."

Frowning, he lowered his head so our foreheads touched. "Ain't worthy of it. And yuh said it hurts. Don't wanna hurt yuh. Not after... what I done..."

"Ûnran," I whispered, "if I didn't think you were worthy, I wouldn't be..." God dammit, this was hard. I wanted him _so badly_, but... that other... the attack... it was still too fresh. "Listen, um... I love you. I don't blame you for anything, I don't... hate you for what happened."

"I lost my head," he protested. "What if... I'm makin' love to yuh, and... Tanith, I don't know what'll happen."

"Whatever happens will happen," I said soothingly. "Just... not tonight. I'm still... it's not because of you, or what you are, or what you did. Let's just hold each other and pretend we're in this city all by ourselves, okay?"

He let out a shuddering breath and allowed a slight smile to curve his lips. "Been wantin' that. Real bad, wantin' it. Can't even stand next to yuh without somebody pullin' a sword or lookin' at me like..." Bowing his head, he swallowed hard. "Ain't gonna change, is it? Still an Orc, still an enemy, still..."

"Not to me," I said pointedly, and kissed him. Gripping him firmly to keep from sliding to the floor on suddenly weak knees, I practically dissolved in his arms. My heart fluttered like a caged bird in my chest, and I wondered if this was what it was always like when you kissed the one you love. There seemed to be a flock of them going wild in my nether regions as well. I had this distinct and insistent longing, for lack of a better word, throbbing between my legs, begging for something, _anything_ to come play with it. How fricking embarrassing.

Parting briefly from my lips, Ûnran breathed, "Yuh sure yuh don't wanna? Smells like yuh do."

Grinning, I shook my head. "I'm not a guy, you know. My head rules my... uh... woman parts. Not the other way around. And my head is telling me that tonight, if we start down that road..." I stopped and bit my lip. There just wasn't any way I could lessen the pain of this admission. It hurt me to say it probably as much as it would for him to hear it. "I'm afraid I'll... see _him_, when I'm with you, Ûnran. Even though I _know_ it wasn't you... I just need a day or two to... forget some more."

His devastated expression tore my heart right out. "'S'okay. I understand."

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Looking at you right now, I don't see him. I see you. I know it's you. I'm not confused." I stroked his cheek, trying to soften the blow. "Sometimes when... bad things happen to people, it comes back to them when they least expect or want it. When we make love, and I mean _when_, I don't want an interruption like that. I just want to be with you and you alone. I want my whole mind completely focused on what you and I are experiencing together."

"Yuh sure it ain't cause... yuh don't trust me?" he said.

"Ûnran, I trust you with my life, and I sure as hell trust you with my Precious," I replied, pulling him into another hug. "It's my own head I don't trust. Or one particular part of it, anyway."

Yeah, Grunt. I'm looking at you.

_Look. See. Remember._

Oh, shut the hell up. Go to your room. And keep your home movies to yourself, too.

"It's probably really late, so... let's go to bed, okay?" I suggested, stepping back.

Another little smile softened his features. "Like when we was in the forest, eh? Just the two of us. Sleepin' under the trees."

"Yeah," I nodded. "Nobody in the entire world. Except, you know, that bunch of Orcs and Men beating each other senseless a half mile away."

He shrugged and chuckled. "Aye. Always gonna be somethin' goin' on. Just gotta ignore it."

Taking his hand, I led him into the bedchamber. "They sure don't make it easy, carrying on like that, do they?" I slid back under the blanket and lay down. Ûnran pulled his boots off and looked slightly at a loss.

"Can't wear this stuff," he said uncertainly.

True, he was still wearing what he had on when we arrived in Minas Tirith. I suppose I hadn't noticed before, but somehow he'd managed to have a bath over in his quarters, because his hair was still a bit damp around the edges. They hadn't seen fit to provide him with the sort of high-brow guest clothing they did me, though. Not even a fresh change of clothes, the selfish bastards.

"Oh, just have a look in the wardrobe over there," I suggested, pointing at the large wooden cabinet. "I'll bet you'll find something."

He rummaged a bit and came up with a pair of white linen drawers. Without preamble or apparent consideration for the colossal space prude in his presence, Ûnran stripped down to nothing and pulled those thin, knee-length pants on. I probably turned six shades of red.

In case you're wondering, _yes_, I looked away. The Floozy wanted to watch, but I'm the one in charge and outvoted her.

Then he was climbing in beside me, pulling the blanket over himself and my world was filled with him as we sank into one another again. Something about being in a bed with him changed things completely, and not just for me. His hands were stroking up and down my body as his mouth covered mine, exploring, tasting... It was clear he'd lost whatever control he'd bravely come to bed with, because his eyes barely opened once. He purred deep in his chest as he kissed me, and I returned his passion with equal measure.

This was what I'd wanted, Grunt be damned, I realized. There wasn't room for any other thought. I made no protest when I felt his hands pulling the long skirts of the nightgown up my legs. In fact, I raised my knee to press against his hip, opening myself up a little. Somehow, one of _my_ hands was kneading his ass. How the hell did it get there? More importantly, how did it get _inside his pants_?

Taking stock, I noticed a few other things. For one, he'd quickly discovered how precariously my nightgown covered the Ladies. They were now both out of their confinement; one was in his mouth, the other in his hand. Once I registered that, I shot over the moon. Oh god, it was a good thing we weren't on a horse.

I could feel every swirl of his tongue on my nipple, every breath on my skin. His hand was careful, keeping the claws at bay, though the occasional momentary scrape tingled and electrified my flesh, sending shivers down my spine and making me squirm with delight beneath him. There just wasn't any real control; the things he was doing to me, the sensations I was feeling, urged an almost instinctive response from my body.

God, I couldn't spread my legs because of the position he was in, only half on top of me. And there was all this fabric all over the place, just _reams_ of it. I let go of his ass for a minute and started pulling the voluminous nightgown off over my head.

"Yuh sure?" he said breathlessly.

"No talking," I snapped. "My brain might find out what we're doing. Just... kiss me. Love me. And don't talk about it."

He nodded and shimmied right back out of his trousers, kicking them to the bottom of the bed. Then he was on top of me.

There was a brief moment where I think the Grunt made one last attempt to warn me, but the Floozy backhanded her and sent her packing. Now's not the time, dammit. Ûnran kissed me so gently, so tenderly, like he knew this was the moment. It was going to hurt and he wanted to soften it as much as possible. I could feel the entire length of his body, our chests pressed together, his erection poised at the gate, my legs parted on either side of his hips. We just lay like that for several minutes, kissing and touching each other. While part of me wanted to get it over with, a bigger part wanted to savor this moment, because it would never come again.

"Yuh ready?" he whispered against my mouth.

I swallowed and my breathing quickened a little. Maybe there was a tiny bit of fear there still, but not because of what he was. At a loss for words, I just nodded and braced myself. His hips drew back a bit, and I could feel... oh my god... Would I be wet enough? Was he too big? I knew it would sting, but how much and for how long?

"I love yuh, Tanith," he said. "Take what I got. Take all of it. It's all yours. Everything. All of me."

With those words, he entered my body slowly, watching my face for any signs of pain or a change of mind. I was assailed with a bit of embarrassment at his intent stare, and kind of wanted to fix my eyes on the ceiling instead of him. Biting my lip, I tried to relax. He grunted a little as he pushed past my body's resistance.

It hurt a little. Okay, it hurt a bunch. Like a rending sort of pain that left me trembling for a moment. I don't think I teared up, but I made a little noise of discomfort. Ûnran whispered, "Sorry. Want me to stop?"

Shaking my head, I patted his back and sort of... shifted my hips a bit. "Just... do it faster. Maybe it won't hurt so much."

Nodding, his brow furrowed, he took a deep breath, and did the band-aid approach, thrusting once, hard and fast, and burying himself in me completely. There was no wail of dismay, no toppling towers, no erupting volcanoes when the Precious was destroyed. The only thing in my head was the realization that I'd given away the last gift that was entirely mine to give.

His face went slack with surprise, and maybe a little oh-my-god-this-feels-great as well. He didn't seem to remember what came next, and just hovered there for a moment.

"Ûnran," I said softly, and he looked startled to hear me speak. His yellow eyes focused on me again. "I don't know much, but I think this is where it starts, not where it ends."

He laughed a little, and started breathing again. "Tanith. It's so... different. So... different." Slowly, he came out of whatever shock was paralyzing him, and started to move. "Can't believe... how different... yuh want me. I can feel it... yuh _want_ me."

"I do," I said, and rolled my hips with his rhythm. To my surprise, I realized it didn't hurt anymore, either. The more we moved together, the better it felt. My face flushed and my heart beat faster. So many wonderful sensations were happening all at once, I didn't know what to focus on, and decided to shut down intellectual thought for a bit. I held on and followed his lead.

This was his gift to me as much as mine to him, I realized. He held himself back, drawing out the inevitable conclusion for as long as he could. I think it was because he wanted to savor this moment as much as I did, more than knowing that a woman's orgasm is harder to find than the Holy Grail. That's pretty much what ensured the Grail fell into his lap, so to speak. It hit me so hard, I dug my nails into his ass and kind of bellowed a bit. He was so shocked by what was happening to me, he lost his grip and let himself go as well.

And my mom said the first time would be a disappointment.

_What do moms know?_

Amen, sister.


	35. Parents Can be SO Embarrassing Sometimes

**Parents Can be SO Embarrassing Sometimes**

Was there anything in this world so beautiful as the sight of your lover sleeping contentedly next to you? I think I could have watched him forever, his breath purring in his chest. Ûnran lay flat on his back, one arm sort of wrapped around the top of his head on the pillow, the other flung straight out and dangling over the side of the bed. I was on my side, looking at him with my head propped on my hand. While I still had that prudish need to cover my nakedness with the blanket, he just draped himself all over the bed without a stitch on, obviously not nearly as bothered about it as I was.

I found I didn't mind so much now, either. Seeing him like that, anyway. Still a little embarrassed to let the Ladies loose on the world, but not so easily freaked out over man parts displayed so unconcernedly close to me.

In the dim light of very early morning, he looked so powerful and vulnerable at the same time. He had a very muscular body, one that I'd personally seen do great amounts of damage on several occasions. Oddly enough, to his own kind more often than not. Yet, after the first time we made love last night, he cried. I don't know if that's typical of Orcs in general or just Ûnran in particular, but he sobbed for a good long while. I gathered from his broken sentences that something profound had happened to him, some huge revelation or epiphany, but damned if I could understand what he was getting at.

My own realization was too earth-shattering to worry about _his._

How can I describe it? It was like... in that moment, when we were together, and we _came_ together in every sense of the word, I became a woman. Not like I _wasn't_ a woman until validated by a male's ejaculation, but... my god, everything before that moment seemed... childish. Like I'd never really loved anyone, or expressed my _feelings_ for anyone, in a grown-up way. It wasn't that he was male, or that we had sex. He was _Û__nran_, and we _made love_. We opened ourselves to one another in a way neither of us ever had before. Maybe the fact that we'd _been_ open to one another since the day he was born magnified that sense of closeness.

One thing was certain, and that was that I would fight tooth and nail to keep him in my quarters from here on out, no matter whose sensibilities were shattered by the scandal. He was my mate, my lover, my friend, my _world_, and I didn't want to give any of that up or let it out of my sight for a moment.

I was overwhelmed with the desire to explore his body. We hadn't really indulged in much of that when we made love the first time, and the second round... well, we were more relaxed, having cleared the initial hurdle, but still didn't just... touch and nothing else. Now, I really wanted that. A chance to get to know him in an even more intimate way. Every inch of him...

Maybe because the Powers That Be missed the boat both times we made love during the night, there was the obligatory knock on the door to interrupt the fun. I suppose I half expected it, since not once on this adventure had anyone let us alone for long enough to do more than cop a feel.

The sound made Ûnran jerk awake and look around him in a slightly disoriented panic. I tried to stifle a laugh as I climbed out of bed modestly wrapped in the blanket.

"Maybe you'd better stay put," I suggested, grabbing my nightgown and managing to pull it on over my head while still deftly concealing my bits and pieces. He grunted with amusement, but swung his legs around to stand and begin dressing anyway. I closed the bedroom door behind me and went to the main door in the sitting room.

I almost crapped when I saw Gandalf standing there.

"Um... good morning?" I sort of squeaked.

Gandalf pretty much looked like he'd been hit by a brick for several moments, and I wasn't really able to press him for a response. His eyes were running up and down my form, and I suddenly wondered what the hell I looked like. I breezed right past the mirror without a glance; did I have bed-head in a major way? Was I the poster child for 'ridden hard and put away wet'?

I had no idea that a wizard could blush. Good god...

"I suppose... I needn't ask if Ûnran is with you," he said awkwardly.

It hadn't occurred to me last night that maybe the authorities would be keeping an eye on the Orc in their midst, and that maybe when he snuck out to be with me, he was breaking more than the usual rules of propriety. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I straightened as best I could and did a pretty fair job of looking defiant. Maybe.

"Yes, he's here," I managed to say.

"Good," Gandalf replied with a nod. His voice had that forced briskness people get when they know something happened but they want to pretend it didn't because directly addressing it would be embarrassing for everyone. "Denethor's servants reported the disappearance and he is rather... incensed. I am afraid he is convinced Ûnran embarked upon a mission of murder in the lower tiers, regardless that I advised him otherwise."

"He's been here all night," I assured him, though there probably wasn't any need for it. "Obviously."

"Good," he repeated, nodding quickly again. "I will inform Denethor that the search needn't be continued. There is... a morning meal being prepared in the feasting hall. You are... both... welcome to join us."

"Yeah," I replied, "that would be... really good. I'm starving, actually. We'll... get dressed and... um... join everybody."

Gandalf seemed to be having a lot of trouble looking at me when he said, "I would... suggest... making some effort to hide... the marks..." He sort of vaguely gestured in my general direction.

I froze, wide-eyed. "Uh... what marks?"

With a great effort that required he close his eyes and not look me in the face, he swallowed hard and said in an undertone, "Teeth marks. They are many, and... obvious."

Suddenly there came to mind a passage in a book I read once, where the author described someone's eyes widening enough to swallow their face. I thought it was the most ridiculous statement in the world, until it happened to me. My hands flew up to cover my neck, which I had to assume was where the densest population of love bites was congregated. I swear to god, I hadn't even remembered that he'd sort of gnawed on my neck a bit during round two.

"Sure, yeah," I nodded. "We'll just... be there soon."

Bowing a little, Gandalf hurried away in a cloud of embarrassed awkwardness. I closed the door and leaned against it, letting my breath out in a whoosh. That was positively the most uncomfortable exchange I'd ever had. It was like having to confess to my father, or worse my _grandfather_, what went on here last night because the evidence was too strong to deny.

Jesus, I hoped Gandalf wouldn't turn on me because of this. I needed _someone_ with a level head, a certain degree of authority, and enough influence to watch my back where Ûnran was concerned. At least I could, most likely, count on the wizard not to go spilling the beans all over the upper tiers. If I could just find something modest enough in the wardrobe, no one would be the wiser, right? Inappropriate nighttime visitors notwithstanding.

Going back to the bedroom, I found Ûnran dressed but just standing there like an accident victim.

"They lookin' for me?" he said shakily.

"They were, yeah," I nodded. "Gandalf... knew you'd be here, though, so he's going to call off the search."

"I didn't hurt nobody," Ûnran said firmly.

"I'm sure you didn't," I said. "You just... snuck right out, and they didn't even suspect you might... leave. Probably."

Bowing his head, he muttered, "Are yuh mad?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Just... a little surprised."

"By what?"

"Well, evidently... I have... teeth marks all over... my neck, and... I really don't remember... _specifically_..."

He grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, yuh do. Sorry 'bout that."

"It's okay," I said quickly. "It's... uh... better, I think, that Gandalf understands... knows... suspects... whatever... what happened between us. It's good someone knows and isn't... trying to kill us for it." My laugh was strained and forced. Was this how it was the morning after? Too embarrassed to look your lover in the eyes? Maybe afraid he'd see you wanted him again and think you're a slut?

"You okay?" Now he was looking at me, or trying to, anyway. His eyes kept flicking around, like he was trying to look at me but couldn't seem to muster the courage.

"Yeah," I said more confidently than I felt at the moment. "I'm fine. You?"

He hesitated for several seconds before responding. "Yeah." His head bowed again, and he seemed to be having a great deal of trouble speaking. But he pressed on, as if what he wanted to say was very important. "Can't tell yuh... what it meant to me. Ain't got the words. Yuh made me feel... so good. Like I was worth something. Like... like yuh wanted me. _Me._ And you was glad I was alive. I'll never be able to give you enough... for that. My heart's not enough. My body's not enough. I..." He faltered and tears once again spilled down his face.

Going to him, I wrapped my arms around him and held him close. "It's okay," I soothed, stroking his back. His whole body shook as he broke down like he did last night. It struck me hard that of the two of us, maybe _he_ had a more earth-moving experience than _I_ did. Not that losing my virginity was somehow diminished, but it seemed that he gained something in the exchange. Something like a new sense of his own worth as a person. An understanding of what he meant to me. Acknowledgement of a bond between us that could weather any storm, overcome any hardship, survive any attack...

"I love you, Ûnran," I whispered in his ear, squeezing him a bit tighter for a moment.

"Love yuh, Tanith," he murmured.

* * *

><p>Thankfully, whoever stocked the wardrobe in my room took under consideration the possibility that some future guest might be a nun, because I managed to find a satisfactorily concealing garment. And there was a large area that needed covering, let me tell you. I almost couldn't make out the other Orc's teeth marks in the field of nips and nibbles Ûnran left behind. Damned if I didn't have a weird sense of pride about it, too.<p>

When we emerged from our love nest, I half expected there to be sun shining and birds singing in celebration. Maybe bunnies and squirrels capering across a meadow inexplicably dropped onto the top tier of Minas Tirith just for the day. What I got was a sky filled to the max with glowering black clouds, blocking the light so effectively that it looked like the middle of the night, not the early morning. Sort of sucked the joy right out of me. But I was holding Ûnran's hand, so it was okay. I could deal with this.

Coming toward us leading a gaggle of girls was Iffy. They were all laden with buckets and linens and god knows what all else. When we met, everyone stopped and there was an awkward moment where the girls, all of them in the early teen stage, stared at Ûnran like he was a ferocious monster about to come at them with teeth and claws. Iffy, at least, looked a bit braver, though still trembling. She sort of curtsied a bit clumsily.

"Good morning," I said, trying to smile encouragingly. "It's okay," I went on in an undertone. "He won't bite." Wow. _That _was a gigantic lie...

Breathing a sigh of relief, Iffy looked shyly at me. "So... he is your... friend?"

I glanced back at Ûnran. He was keeping his eyes on the ground, his shoulders slumped. Pretty much trying to look smaller and less threatening. I hated to break it to him; he was still an Orc, and he still looked scary as all fuck. Sighing, I turned back to Iffy.

"Yes," I nodded confidently. "He's my friend. This is Ûnran."

"Pleased... to meet you," Iffy said politely. Ûnran grunted and nodded shortly.

The young maid was showing an admirable amount of courage, I thought. Her posse, however, wasn't so fearless, but I could hardly blame them. They'd likely never seen an Orc in their lives, and now they were standing mere feet away from one. Maybe Ûnran didn't look quite like the ones currently occupying Osgiliath or filling up the cesspool that was Mordor, but he was still an Orc of _some_ persuasion, and that was scary enough.

"So... where are you ladies off to?" I asked curiously. Iffy rallied, apparently glad the subject had changed to something a bit less Orcish.

"We go to tidy your rooms, my lady," she beamed. "There was little opportunity to prepare them properly for your arrival. Your... Hobbit friend did his best, but... well, you are a lady, and require a... um..."

"Feminine touch?" I supplied with a grin. She smiled back.

"I will see to your clothing as well. I trust they require cleaning?"

"More than you know," I said, rolling my eyes. "I apologize in advance."

"I have seen worse," she giggled. "But I will not keep you. The Hall of Feasts is that way. I hope you are well pleased with what is offered."

"I'm sure I will be," I smiled. She dropped another curtsey, then directed her troops toward our rooms. Ûnran and I headed for the hall.

"I do all right?" Ûnran muttered under his breath to me.

I had to laugh. "You did fine."

"Don't wanna scare nobody," he growled. "Can't help it, I guess.

"For a while, that's probably what you'll run into," I said a little sadly. "But I'm with you, and you don't scare me. You don't scare any of my friends. Though I think Legolas might be a little nervous around you."

He grunted with amusement. "More like scared'uh _you_."

"Yes, well," I said loftily, "he had it coming."

Before we reached the doors to the hall, Ûnran stopped me and looked into my eyes. "I love yuh, Tanith."

His expression was so intense, like he didn't think I'd believe him if he didn't remind me every few minutes. I reached up and touched his cheek. "I love you, too. Now let's go eat. I'm _starving_."

Grinning, he leaned down and whispered, "Could eat yuh up right here."

"Maybe later we can... chat about that sort of meal, hmmm?" I replied in an undertone.

Giggling behind our hands, we entered the hall. It was a pretty big room with a frickin' _long_ ass table down the middle. The gang was all clustered at one end, though. We went over there to join them. I sat between Gandalf and Ûnran, across from Boromir and what I assumed was Faramir. Like his brother, Faramir pretty closely resembled the guy from the movie except in the nose department. On Gandalf's other side was a beaming Pippin, all decked out in his livery and looking really important.

I found it a little weird that we were all assembled and the Steward wasn't there. On the other hand, I didn't really mind the absence. So far, Denethor hadn't deviated much from what I knew of him in the movie. He could stay in his little hovel and brood. That was fine with me.

"I confess, I am intrigued," Faramir said, turning to me and Ûnran. "I have never sat at table with an Orc. If you would not mind, I would ask you some questions."

Shrugging, Ûnran stopped picking at his breakfast and waited expectantly. I held my breath; Jesus, don't ask insulting questions, _please_...

"Do all Orcs hate Men?" Faramir asked. "I have always assumed this was the case, otherwise they would not so easily be persuaded to fight us. What say you?"

I couldn't believe it. His tone was one of genuine curiosity, almost scholarly, as if he hadn't just the previous day been sent packing by a load of Orcs in Osgiliath. Not even Ûnran could sense any provocation in the question, judging by how his shoulders relaxed and he actually gave thought to his answer.

"Don't know much 'bout other Orcs," he replied. "Just Uruk-hai. Master told us to hate Men, so we did. He told us to kill'em first, don't ask no questions. So we did. Told us to..." He stopped and looked cautiously at me. I knew where he was going, and nodded. We're all adults here. Most everyone knows already. Swallowing, he went on shakily. "Told us to... hurt their females. So we did. Kill their small ones. So... so we did. Didn't know why. Didn't _ask_ why. Askin' just got yuh whipped. So yuh didn't ask. Yuh just obeyed. Did what you was told and didn't say nothin'."

"So... you are saying it is nothing... personal?" Faramir pressed.

"Nah," Ûnran said, shaking his head. "Ain't nothin' personal. Not for _us,_ anyway."

"What of other Orcs, then?" Boromir asked. "Those like the Pitmaster."

Sighing, Ûnran said, "Ain't sure. Didn't talk much 'bout it. Pitmaster got called to serve. Hates the Dark Lord 'bout as much as you lot, I'll warrant. Got no choice, though. Yuh get called to fight, yuh go fight. Family don't matter. Younglings don't matter. Your mate don't matter. Whatchuh _want_ don't matter. Yuh just... do what you're told."

"You are _slaves_ to the will of the Shadow?" Faramir asked quietly, a strong look of sympathy on his face.

"Aye," Ûnran nodded. "Ain't allowed tuh have no wills of our own. Barely got mine now." He glanced once at me and looked away. "Don't hear Master no more, but I hear... somethin' else. Specially since the sky went dark. Just... a whisper."

"You never said anything about that," I cut in. "Ûnran, do you hear _him_?"

"Not loud," he said quickly, obviously trying to reassure me. "Didn't wanna say nothin'. It's just..." His face crumpled and he bowed his head in shame. "Just a reminder'uh what I am. So's I don't fucking forget."

"What is this Voice telling you to do?" Gandalf asked, concern on his face. Everyone looked alarmed, and I suppose I did too.

Swallowing hard, and still not looking up, Ûnran said in an even quieter voice, "Just... callin' me... to fight. Against Men." Now he looked up pleadingly at all of us. "It ain't strong, not like Master's Voice. It don't hurt when I say no. I can resist it, cause I don't wanna fight. I don't wanna kill nobody."

Reaching over, I took hold of his hand. How long would it be before Frodo pitched the Ring into the fire? A week? A month? Damn, it couldn't be soon enough.

"I had no idea," Boromir said, shaking his head. "Do you mean to say that, until Saruman was brought to heel, you truly felt pain when you disobeyed his will?"

Exasperated suddenly, I huffed. "Don't you remember when we camped on the way to Isengard?" I asked incredulously. "He had probably the worst attack I'd seen."

Boromir raised a bemused eyebrow. "As I recall, he was afflicted by an excess of affection."

I sat stunned there for a minute, not really sure what to do with that. Then the man laughed softly, and I realized he was actually teasing me. Holy crap, that was weird. I was about to say something when the doors at one end of the hall opened and Denethor finally came in.

A wave of pissed blew into the room ahead of him. If I thought the Steward looked ready to kill an army of Orcs with his bare hands yesterday, it was even worse today.

Denethor came to a halt at the head of the table and glared at me. Son of a bitch... how the hell did he find out?

"How... _dare_ you?" he hissed, and I shrank from his fury. "You throw my good will back in my face. Spit upon the hospitality I have shown you. Flaunt your wickedness before my people."

"Father, what...?" Faramir began.

"Silence!" Denethor roared, making his youngest son cringe.

"Denethor...," Gandalf said calmly.

"_And_ you!" the Steward barked. "I know what you would counsel. Tolerance and mercy. What say you to _this_?" With that, he pulled a bundle from behind his back and flung it on the table.

I stopped breathing. I swear to god, I couldn't even inhale. It was our sheet, and there were these dribbly little reddish brown spots on it. Oh my god. It completely slipped my mind. I was all gooey-eyed over Ûnran and how glorious our night had been, then Gandalf came and freaked me out, then we had to get our asses to breakfast or people would talk...

"My servants know well the evidence of consummation," he spat. "They have tended to many a marriage bed. _That_ is virgin blood. You _rutted_ with the beast!" he cried, pointing a shaking finger at Ûnran, his voice cracking with rage. "Under _my roof_!"

I didn't know what to say. To have an incredibly beautiful and personal shared experience dragged into a public forum as if we'd done something unnatural, unholy, disgusting, foul... I couldn't crawl far enough away. There wasn't a hole deep enough. I'd never been so humiliated in my life, and there just wasn't anything I _could_ say that wouldn't make what we did seem even worse. The Brat didn't even want to leave her room at the moment, which in retrospect was probably a good thing.

"A simple _whore_ would be difficult enough to stomach," Denethor continued, and I winced. "But a _whore_ who lies with an _Orc_..." He shuddered and his face twitched.

Glancing at Ûnran, I saw that he looked even worse than I did. His eyes were squeezed shut and every word out of Denethor's mouth made him flinch, yet a low growl was rumbling in his chest.

Holy shit, how the hell could Iffy do this to me? To _us_? Granted, I didn't know her well, and we'd only talked for a few minutes, but... I suppose I thought that would be enough. She seemed to understand what Unran meant to me, how important being with him was. Maybe there was enough of _my_ Teen hanging around that I thought I could trust _her_ Teen.

Dammit, where I come from, when the maid service tidies up your frickin' room, they don't wave your soiled linens in the hotel manager's face!

_Trust too much. Good riddance._

Jesus H. Grunt, shut _up_.

_Learn now?_

Yeah. Got it. Now bugger off.

"Father," Boromir said carefully, "you know I share your opinion on many things. Perhaps I am... equally... repelled... by this... evidence... and what it means. But... I have known Tanith for months. I must protest your accusation. She is not a whore."

"What else would you call it?" Denethor snarled, rounding on his favorite son. He seemed doubly pissed because the one he liked best was challenging him.

"I have been in their company for some time," his son replied. I could tell this was difficult for him to say, and I started thinking up cookie batches that he might like. God, I never gave him any credit, and here he was... "There is... great affection between them. I've no doubt in my mind... or my heart... that they love one another. Yes, father... though he is an Orc, he feels such things. I know it by his words as well as his deeds."

Denethor looked like he'd been hit by a truck. "You... have I lost you to Mithrandir as well, my son?" he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I am not lost," Boromir said. "Nor are my thoughts clouded by sentiment. If you wish proof of this Orc's quality, I shall give it. On our road here, he found a small scouting group of Orcs, clearly seeking to warn the army should Rohan ride forth to our aid. Together we engaged them in battle to remove the threat. I confess, I more than half expected he would turn upon me once among his own kind. But he did not." Boromir looked across at Ûnran, who finally lifted his head to return his gaze. "This Orc, given the opportunity to rejoin his folk, to betray me as well as Tanith to their foul intentions, fought at my side. He showed them no mercy. To my shame, I was too shocked by his faithfulness to notice the Orc behind me until Ûnran slew it before it struck."

Turning to his father with a stern expression on his face, Boromir said, "Ûnran saved my life. For that, I owe him a great debt. If I must pay it by looking the other way where his... relations with Tanith are concerned, then so be it."

"Then... my eyes are _not_ deceived," Faramir said, looking intently at Ûnran. "I did not trust what I saw, yet it is clear now. I see... a man in love." Turning to me, a warm smile slowly crept across his face. "His love is returned a thousandfold."

Good god, how in the world did something as bitter and mean as Denethor produce such great sons?

The Steward huffed angrily, struck speechless for a moment. His gaze kept flicking between Boromir and Faramir, both giving him the 'shut the hell up before you embarrass yourself' look. Scowling even more furiously, he growled, "That... _thing_ you defend is the spawn of the Enemy! The foulest creatures that walk the land are Orcs, and you _defend_ it!"

"He is only _partially_ Orc," Gandalf pointed out. "There is much... Man's blood in him. And truly, among those who surrendered, _and_ showed no signs of deception after Saruman's defeat, were Orcs of Mordor."

"You say... he is part _Man_?" Denethor roared. "Is this meant to ease my heart? That he is not wholly Orc, not fully blackened by the taint of the Unnamed One, but he is an abomination, a profane blending of Man and Orc? And I am meant to be _comforted_ by this... this... foul mating?"

"It weren't mating," Ûnran suddenly spoke up. I honestly didn't know where he found the courage, even though it sounded to me like the only one who thought we were the world's most disgusting couple was the grumpy old man spraying us with spit at the moment. "Master didn't want us mating."

I think it was the first time Ûnran had said a word in Denethor's presence, because the Steward abruptly stopped spewing insults and stared at him. You'd think he believed Ûnran either couldn't speak an understandable language, or couldn't speak at all. Like a dumb animal.

Swallowing hard, for now he had the floor and all eyes were on him, Ûnran said shakily, "Master... made us... rape whiteskin females... to make more Uruk-hai." Hanging his head in shame, he muttered, "He made _me_ do that. Didn't have no choice, and I didn't wanna do it. Came close to killin' me when I didn't obey, though. Yuh do what you're told, or yuh die."

You could have heard a pin drop a mile away. I glanced up at Denethor and was a little surprised to see his face still twitching, like he was barely holding it together. What the hell was _wrong_ with this guy? Both sons still alive, and he's _still_ a god damned wingnut?

"What... Tanith and I did," Ûnran went on desperately, "we... made love... I swear... it wasn't rapin' or fuckin'. I know the difference."

I put my hand on his and held his gaze. "It's okay," I said softly. Finally dredging up the necessary bravery, and rousting the Brat out of her room, I turned a defiant eye toward Denethor and said, "I know how you all feel about this, and I really hoped it would go unnoticed, but apparently Minas Tirith is a smaller town than I thought. You can't do _anything_ without everybody knowing every damn detail. So... I'm going to say this once, and then I don't want to hear another god damned word about it. I love Ûnran. I _want_ Ûnran. I don't want anyone else. I don't want to _be_ with anyone else. He is everything to me, and everything I want. What I do with him is none of your god damned business. He's not going to be sleeping in the servants' quarters anymore. He's going to be in _my_ quarters with me. And I swear to god, if any one of you tries to stop him from coming to me, I'll kick your ass. I've had enough. It's none of your business what we do. We're not hurting anyone. We sure as hell aren't hurting each other. So please... back off. Or I'm gonna get shitty, and I don't think you want that."

Again, pin-dropping silence. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Next to me, Gandalf nodded his agreement. "Tanith is right. There is no reason to distrust Ûnran, regardless of his race. He's proven himself many times." I caught Boromir nodding firmly across the table.

"Tanith has likewise proven herself in my eyes," he added. "Though she has never told me herself, I have learned of it since." He lowered his gaze for a moment, gathering himself, then looked intently at his father. "I was not meant to live. I should have been slain at Amon Hen. If not for her presence, perhaps... and my worry for her safety... the events of that day would likely have seen more than my horn floating down the river into your hands. And because her heart is so great that she befriended an Orc... I am able to sit at your table once again. Father, whatever personal opinions you... or _I_... may have for what they share, it is truly none of our business. There is good in _both_ of them... and... in their union. I will not speak against them."

Denethor couldn't even speak. He turned a baleful eye on Gandalf and held the wizard's gaze for several long moments, then stormed out of the hall.

I wanted to lean against Ûnran with relief. It was like someone opened the door and let oxygen into the airlock again. But I kept my hands to myself. No sense in pushing it. Faramir didn't say a word as he picked up the sheet and handed it off to a servant. I heard him mutter something about 'disposing' of it. At least nobody suggested hanging it out the window or running it up a flagpole.

Sitting back down, Faramir smiled warmly. "I hope you do not mind, but I dearly wish to speak with you both. I suspect you have a fascinating tale to tell, and I do so enjoy stories."

Laughing and sitting back in my chair, I said, "Yeah, we have a hell of a story to tell."


	36. The Best Laid Plans of Orcs and Hobbits

**The Best Laid Plans of Orcs and Hobbits**

Between Ûnran and I, with a little help from Pippin and even a few interjections from Boromir, we brought Faramir up to speed on all the exciting things that had happened since we struck out from Rivendell. No sense telling him about the pre-Boromir leg of the trip. At least, in my opinion.

As the conversation wandered down other paths, I began to notice something. Boromir and Faramir were acting like the little scene with dad hadn't even happened. Just pretty much went on benignly, which I thought was odd. Granted, the relaxed atmosphere left behind by the cantankerous old bastard's departure was far preferable, but wow... It was like the embarrassing family member had just been shuffled off to the attic, and if we didn't mention him again, everyone would forget it even happened.

Eventually, the big shots of Gondor's City Defense Unit excused themselves and headed off to start plotting and planning for a siege, leaving me, Ûnran, and Pippin to find something interesting to do on the gloomy seventh tier. About the only thing we _could_ do was take a walk.

As we headed out of the feast hall trying to ignore Pippin's grousing about how we were sitting there long enough for 'second breakfast' and nobody saw fit to supply any, _what's up with that_, who should come skittering up to us but Iffy.

The whole incident at the breakfast table came roaring back when I saw her pinched little forehead and wringing hands. That sense of betrayal returned as well, and I scowled at her. Were I as dark as Ûnran, we'd probably look like twins. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tilted my head and set my feet in that universal 'just try to talk your way out of it, bitch, I dare you' pose that usually precedes the cat fight. I really had a hankering for ripping out some hair right about now.

What made it even _worse_, now that I saw her, was the realization that the 'help' talks. That wonderful, blissful, sweet, loving experience was likely being discussed in speculatively lurid detail all the way down on the first tier, spreading like wildfire all over Minas Tirith because shit, who fucks an _Orc_? That sort of thing doesn't happen every day. Bound to be a hot topic of conversation for years to come.

Oh, and you know what else? _Now_ whenever Ûnran and I go off alone together, even just to talk in private, _everyone_ will assume we're humping the living crap out of each other. Great. Middle Earth is like one big high school.

"Oh look, it's Judas," I snarled as she sort of cringed her way closer, unable to look me in the face. _You're damn right_, I thought. _Grovel some more; __**maybe**__ I won't kick your ass right off the balcony._

"Please, mi'lady," she stammered, and I was taken aback by the fact that she was actually in _tears_. "Please. I tried to stop them, but they feared Master Denethor's wrath if they did not report such... things. I beg of you. It was not my doing. I am _so_ sorry."

About all I could do was blink with surprise.

"Didn't try hard enough," Ûnran growled. "Coulda got us fuckin' killed."

Iffy's eyes shot open even wider and she put her hand to her mouth in shock; whether from the statement, the speaker, or the f-bomb was unclear. "Please understand," she breathed, looking from him to me, "I thought only to spare you... the... embarrassment. I did not imagine your _lives_... Please forgive me!" She sank to her knees and clutched my skirt with both hands, sobbing up a storm.

Well. That, uh... changed things a bit. "Hey," I said awkwardly, "it's... it's all right. Nobody's dead. We're... we're fine. Thank you for _trying_ to stop them, anyway."

Looking up at me through tear-filled eyes, she asked, "Do you wish to know who betrayed you?"

I could tell she was loathe to name names and point fingers, but felt the need to prove herself to me. At this point, though, it hardly mattered. The damage was done. Beating the hell out of teenage girls wouldn't make the rumor mill grind to a halt.

"No," I said, shaking my head. Ûnran growled his protest, and I elbowed him in the gut, making him grunt. "They... well, you said they did their... job, I guess. What that wingnut Steward wanted them to do." Shrugging, I sighed. "I suppose it's... not their fault. Or something."

Iffy slowly stood and fished a handkerchief from her skirt pocket. Wiping herself down, she met my eyes finally. "My lady, I cannot thank you enough for understanding. I regret that my words were ignored and you suffered for it. I will speak of your generosity and kindness." Cheeks turning bright red, she looked down and lowered her voice. "I am afraid there is much... talk... of... By those who have not met you." She glanced nervously at Ûnran. "They do not see _you_ as anything but an Enemy. What was revealed... angers them."

That gave me pause. Once the shit started flying, would a mob storm the seventh tier to take him out?

"Can you do me a favor?" I asked, and Iffy nodded vigorously. "Keep your ears open. Listen to what people are saying. I don't want... Look, the Dark Lord's army is going to lay siege to the city. You know that, right?"

A look of terror took up residence on her face and I realized I'd gone and whoopsed again. Son of a bitch. Well, fuck it. "All right, not exactly common knowledge. Anyway, I don't want people thinking that throwing Ûnran over the wall is going to stop the siege or in any way make the city safer. If you hear _anything_ that sounds like a plot to hurt him, _please_ tell us."

"I will, my lady," she said, putting on a brave face. She even turned to Ûnran and said, "My lord." _That_ made his growly breathing go quiet for a second. "Master Peregrin," she added, curtseying to Pippin. Then she scurried off.

"Well, how do you like _that_?" Pippin groused. "_He's_ a 'my lord' and _I'm_ a 'Master Peregrin'!"

"_You_ didn't get your bed linens thrown on the table," I retorted. "Get over yourself."

"Don't wanna be a 'my lord'," Ûnran growled. "Why you ain't gettin' their names, eh?"

"If you were in the dungeon, I'd be taking names and kicking ass," I assured him with a pat on the arm. It still floored me, and I had to laugh. "Wow. Who would've thought _Boromir_ would be the one to get his dad to back off the name-calling and finger-pointing, huh?" Ûnran grunted in agreement, which jogged another thought. "You saved him?"

Ûnran shrugged rather modestly. I could _just_ see a tiny smile on his face. Very tiny. "Yeah. He ain't so bad."

"So what happens now?" Pippin asked, his brow furrowing a bit. At my blank, prompting look, he added, "With the war."

"Ah. Um... I guess we wait," I said lamely. "If you want to know how long, I don't know. Everything's just sort of been... different."

Pippin shook his head. "I cannot believe Boromir was fated to die. That is... surprising."

"_You_ were surprised," I snorted. "Imagine _my_ shock. And that sort of... throws a wrench in, too. In the history _I_ know, he's dead. I don't know what it'll mean that he isn't. What will happen because he _didn't_ die. Things are already unfamiliar. I mean, I _thought_ Denethor flipped out because his son was dead, but now it looks like he was going to go apeshit no matter _what_ happened."

"Excuse me...," Pippin interrupted hesitantly. "Ape... _shit_?"

Rolling my eyes, I clarified, "You know, nutty as ape shit. Crazy."

"Oh, yes," the Hobbit said, nodding uncertainly. "_Was_ he?"

"Yeah. Historically, he didn't take it too well. I _still_ don't know why you're his...," I said, sort of gesturing at Pippin's livery, "lackey or whatever. I mean, you're _supposed_ to be, but only because you felt you owed him since Boromir died saving you."

Pippin's shoulders slumped a little with the additional shock of _that_ revelation, and I found myself rolling my eyes again. "Jesus, Pip."

He shook himself and said, "Sorry, just... I offered my service because I didn't know what else to do. I wanted to be of use, and... well..."

Smirking, I said, "Nothing like waiting hand and foot on a guy who's three bricks shy of a full load, huh?"

"You can't possibly imagine," the normally jovial Hobbit whimpered.

"Odd, though," I said thoughtfully, and looked at Ûnran as if there was something about _him_ that might tell me what was odd about the whole situation.

Which, if one were to really address it, the fact that an Uruk from Isengard was standing on the seventh tier of Minas Tirith could most definitely be categorized as 'odd,' as could my own presence there. Add a splash of not-quite-dead-yet Boromir not only not being dead but taking over the city's defenses from his crazy batshit father...

Okay, I'll give him the Orc on the battlements thing. That's pretty weird. But _not_ Boromir being alive. From his perspective, there ain't no other condition for the boy to be in. So scratch that. Why would Denethor still be a spit-spraying old codger with a bloody linen fetish? Is the Orc enough? Are my... activities with said Orc enough to send him over the edge? Crap, if _everyone else_ at the breakfast table was pretty much fine with it...

Nope. Not adding up.

"Pippin," I said, turning to him. "Has he... has he been like this since you got here?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I picked up Ûnran shifting uncomfortably. Holding up a hand to stop Pippin from answering, I looked at Ûnran. "What is it?"

Some day, I would love to see Ûnran _not_ cringe under direct questioning. "Didn't wanna say," he replied in a low voice, unable to meet my eyes.

"Say _what_?" I pressed.

Ûnran swallowed uncomfortably. "He's... been... touched." He shrugged a little, as if that wasn't quite the word he would have used but didn't know another.

"Touched?" I repeated, bewildered. "By what?"

"Don't think I seen it enough?" Ûnran said stiffly.

"Seen _what_?" I hissed impatiently.

"He's been touched by the Shadow," Ûnran snarled.

It's quite possible my brain shut down production for a second, because all that had the ability to exit my mouth was a breathless, "_Whuh_?" Couldn't even manage the whole word.

Embarrassed now, Ûnran shrugged. "Just a gut feel. Seen it before. Somethin' in the eyes. Don't notice with Orcs, cause... ain't nothin' to compare to. We all got it. But Men... not all of'em I seen have it. Dunlendings do. You lot don't." Shaking his head sharply, he seemed to retreat some more. "That's all I got. Probably wrong."

Good god. If he _was_ right, and I had no reason to think he wasn't, then was Denethor 'touched' before or after we arrived? Was this _my_ fault? Would he have been 'normal' if I hadn't shown up? _Now_ I needed Pippin's answer.

"Okay. Has he been like this since you got here?" I said slowly and pointedly to Pippin.

"He... sort of," Pippin replied uncertainly. "When we got here, he had Boromir's horn. I tried to tell him his son was alive, but Gandalf said to let it go for now, wait until you came. Things could happen on the road, he said. Best not to give the Steward a false hope."

"Well, that's just stupid," I snapped. "What could possibly..." My words got stuck in my throat, but I refused to let Grunt have her way. I didn't need _that_ memory right now. Regrouping, I had a moment to think it through. _Why would Gandalf not want Denethor to know_? Then it hit me.

"Oh my," I breathed. "He was worried fate would catch up to Boromir before he made it here. That's why." Okay, that mystery was probably solved, but not important at the moment. "Okay, never mind." Pointing at Ûnran, I said, "_You_ think Denethor's been 'touched.'" Turning to point at Pippin, I continued, "And _you_ say he's been a nutjob since you got here." I rubbed my chin, because it always helps the hero think. "Can I assume, then, that this is somehow not my fault?" I wondered half to myself.

"I ain't sure 'bout nothin'," Ûnran pointed out. "Just... I dunno. Somethin' goin' on there. Somethin' familiar."

"Yeah, well, when it comes to the Shadow, I consider you an expert," I said. "If it looks like shit and smells like shit, it probably _is_ shit."

"Uh," Ûnran ventured uncertainly, "we talkin' 'bout shit or the Shadow?"

"Like there's a difference?" This was getting rather heavy. If we went and spouted off to Gandalf with absolutely no evidence to support an accusation of this magnitude, there'd be hell to pay, and I really wasn't interested in having my lover locked up because he thought the Steward 'looked funny.'

Pippin, however, didn't seem to mind endangering Ûnran's freedom. "Do you think we should tell Gandalf?"

Ûnran shrugged. "You can tell anyone yuh want. Ain't nobody gonna believe it. Not comin' from me."

"That sucks, but it's probably true," I commented. "I mean, he just insulted you in public... both of us. That might reduce our credibility even more."

Ûnran looked hard at me. "I ain't insulted," he growled. "He accused me of matin' with you. That ain't an insult."

"Oh, well, right," I stammered awkwardly. "I guess that's... relative. But... the fact remains that _he_ believed he was insulting _me_... anyway, regardless... I think somebody ought to... check it out."

I felt less than two feet tall. Good god, did I just imply in the world's clumsiest manner that what we shared was something embarrassing to me? Something I _could_ be insulted about? Holy crap.

Shaking that off, and taking a mental note to address the expression on his face, which brought back memories of Helm's Deep, I turned to the Hobbit. "Pippin, you're small."

"What?"

"You're... well, duh, you're small," I repeated. "I don't care what you snuck out of Treebeard's liquor cabinet, you're still smaller than I am. You're a _Hobbit_." I grinned as the seeds of a plan took root. "And Hobbits are _sneaky_. Why don't you poke around a bit?"

"Poke around?"

"Yeah," I nodded, feeling more confident. "Follow that crazy bastard and see what he's up to. You're supposed to be his right hand ma-, er Hobbit."

"You want me to watch him," Pippin translated for his own edification, I guess.

"Yeah. If he's chatting up the Dark Lord, he's gonna need his ass kicked."

"Can't afford no traitors," Ûnran pointed out.

"No, we can't," I agreed.

Shrugging resignedly, Pippin said, "All right. I'll do it."

* * *

><p>I could tell things had changed between us when we ditched Pippin – I mean, sent him off on his mission – and talked about the whole 'insult' thing. He wasn't quite as angry about the slight, and listened to me clumsily stagger my way through an explanation as we sat on a bench in the spindly shadow of the dead tree in the courtyard.<p>

"From _his_ point of view, what we shared... was... something to be ashamed of," I said awkwardly. He wasn't looking at me, seemingly content to stare at the ground as if it offended him. "I'm not ashamed. I'm not even... okay, yes, it was embarrassing to have the whole thing... the sheet and the whore business... in front of _everybody_... _That_ part was humiliating in the extreme." Prodding his foot with a toe, I said, "What about you? How did _you_ feel when Denethor came after us?"

Ûnran blinked a few times, but otherwise kept his gaze intently focused on that patch of earth. "Thought he was gonna kill me. Or kill _you_. And I couldn't do _nothin'_." He finally looked at me, and his eyes told me how really awful that moment was. "They took my weapons. If he tried to kill us, he'd have all the others on his side and I wouldn't... I wouldn't be able to protect you." He bowed his head again. "In Rohan, I had to kill to keep you safe. On the way here, I killed to protect you. Almost didn't make it in time, but I did it. I killed for you. Do it again if there's a need. There was a need, and I didn't think I'd be able to do it this time." He clenched his fists angrily. "Couldn't do _nothin'._ Had to just... _sit_ there and _take_ it. Or we'd _both_ die."

"I... doubt it would have gotten to that point," I said, though not very convincingly. "They _know_ you. If they were going to kill you, they've all had plenty of chances. God, if _Boromir's_ defending you, you've got nothing to worry about." I tried to smile and nudge him playfully, but it felt forced. The fact of the matter was, he operated from a position of having everything he cherished taken away from him based on someone else's whims. He didn't think he had any options but to kill the one trying to take it, because that'll pretty much stop the theft cold, won't it? To have his ability to defend himself as well as me removed, and then face an attack from someone with the power to kill him, either directly or by commanding someone else to do it, must have made him feel pretty damn helpless.

He'd killed for me. He'd told Boromir he'd die for me. And I implied that what we were accused of doing was an 'insult'. Oh Jesus.

"Okay, Ûnran, look at me," I said firmly, taking his hands. He reluctantly raised his eyes to mine. "I love you. I love... everything about you. I love what we share. I love what we do together. I love it so much, I think I'd like some more of it right now, while everyone else is still fat and lazy from breakfast. I might even want to do it after lunch. Hell, _instead_ of lunch. And you know something else?" I asked, my own grin broadening as a leering grin – complete with dimples – curved across his face. "I don't give a god damn if everyone in Minas Tirith knows we're doing it."

Standing, I pulled him to his feet. "Let's go get naked, shall we?"

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief likely raging through the tiers of Minas Tirith, Ûnran and I <em>didn't<em> spend every waking moment sheathing and resheathing, in quick succession, his sword in my scabbard. That isn't to say we didn't _try_, but even an Uruk needs a nap _some_ time. Granted, I had no comparison, but I was pretty convinced that, as lovers went, there couldn't possibly be a more generous one drawing breath than Ûnran. But I was probably biased.

I had to trust that the walls of our little love nest were thick enough to spare our neighbors a fright. _I_ didn't make much noise, but a full-throated Uruk roar of triumph can shake the rafters.

It took a couple of days for Pippin to get any worthwhile leads on Denethor's doings. Most of what he reported were war council shenanigans and insane mutterings in the Steward's private quarters. The wigged out old loon was trying to stay 'involved' in the planning and barged in frequently. Because Pippin was practically on a short leash, unable to attend to any other tasks than those Denethor gave him, he had _loads_ of juicy gossip to share.

"No way," I breathed in disbelief the afternoon following Pippin's commencement of sleuthing activities. "He _didn't_."

The Hobbit nodded vigorously. We were in the sitting room of my quarters, draped on the couches comfortably. Pippin was in there about as much as we were these days, trying to get away from the wingnut. And I think he appreciated that _I_ at least understood the necessity of second breakfast and elevensies. At least, I let him _think_ that. Iffy kept a snack table laid out for us all the time. Cause, you know, great sex is like pot. Makes you hungry.

"He walked up to Boromir and told him, right in front of Prince Imrahil, that we should surrender," Pippin repeated.

Ûnran chuckled. "Ain't gonna do no good. Orcs'll still destroy the whole fuckin' city. Don't matter if yuh surrender or not."

"That's what Boromir said," Pippin said, exasperated. "So Denethor told him... well, meaning no offense, but he said _you'd_ probably be the one to open the gates and let them in."

Snorting with disgust, Ûnran turned away and scowled. I patted his knee. "I _hope_ Boromir told him to blow it out his ass."

"Well, he _did_ defend Ûnran once more," Pippin said loyally. "As did his brother. And Denethor... well, he went slightly... a bit _more_ mad, and made several... unrepeatable references to... various... debaucheries... once the Orcs enter the city."

My head sort of fell back and I stared at the ceiling, letting out one of those 'dear god, why is this guy not in a home' sort of weary sighs. "Lovely. I hate to tell him, but one should not urge surrender in the same breath as descriptions of mass rape. It's not a very good marketing ploy. Ask anyone."

Pippin blushed and bowed his head. "He... didn't imply such a thing. What he actually said was more like... by your example, such acts... would be... welcomed."

Naturally, Ûnran found this amusing. "Yer a shaper, all right," he chuckled.

Giving him a withering glare, I snapped, "Shape _this_, yuh bastard." Ûnran snapped at the air with his teeth in a gesture I'd come to find out was a prelude to some mighty intimate nibbling in very naughty places. Just thinking about the veiled 'threat' made me shiver and wish the short guy would get the hell out and play with his own friends for once. Sighing, I shook my head. "Do I dare ask what happened next?"

"Oh, just what you'd imagine," Pippin said smoothly, helping himself to the fruit basket. "Boromir... what is it you call it? He 'blew a gasket'? Anyway, there was a lot of yelling, some name-calling, guards were mustered, and Denethor got hauled off to his quarters. I confess I was too distraught by the whole incident to see to his errands for the rest of the day, and begged leave to recover, which he graciously allowed. Quite uncharacteristically," he added, popping a grape into his far-from-distraught mouth.

"You're holding up amazingly well after such a shock," I commented wryly.

"Runs in the family," the Hobbit chirped happily as he lounged back into the overstuffed chair.

"So...," I began hesitantly, watching my fingers worry themselves in a tangled mess on my lap, "what's... what's everyone saying, lower down? About us. Any, uh... comments? Muttered threats? Pitchforks being sharpened? Stuff like that?"

Pippin sobered and frowned. "I do not wish to sadden or upset you."

"I know, I know," I said hastily. "I shouldn't even ask, but... I mean, I don't _need_ anyone's approval, but..." I glanced at Ûnran, but he refused to look at me. His eyes seemed to like the floor level when questions like this were brought up. "I guess I don't really expect the whole world to... accept... but I don't want to spend all my life explaining and justifying and on and on and on..." I let out an exasperated breath, begging silently for these guys to _get it_.

Thankfully, Pippin recognized the seriousness of my worry and tread carefully as well as truthfully. "It is not... _widely_ accepted. But there are a few. Mostly those in Boromir and Faramir's inner circle. Their officers. A few of the guardsmen of the city with whom I have spent time. Of course, Ephedilrind is on your side as well."

"Who?"

"Iffy."

"Oh. Right."

Pippin chuckled. "You know, I have heard Faramir say he'd like to coax an Orc of Mordor into surrendering so he might learn another Orc's point of view on the world. He said the Isengarders are too young and isolated." Scowling, Ûnran snorted, and Pippin waved him down. "I'm certain he still finds you interesting enough," he teased.

"Well, _I'll_ offer to drag his butt back to Helm's Deep, then," I said. "When all this crap blows over, I want to go back and see for myself that everyone who surrendered is being taken care of. I'm still kicking myself for not making sure of it before we left."

"They're Orcs," Ûnran shrugged. "If Men don't kill them, they'll survive."

Thank you, Mr. Obvious.

One more day of Denethor's Wild West Show put his ass in the slammer, figuratively speaking. Boromir, according to Pippin's detailed account later in our favorite hang-out, _my sitting room_, decided enough was enough and banned his father from attending any more war councils. Having failed utterly in his attempts to promote a surrender, Denethor decided that reminding everyone what the lovely ladies of Gondor had in store for them when the Orcs overran the city would make them see his point of view. All it got them to see was an hysterically screaming Steward arguing about ladies' underwear with Gandalf before being unceremoniously gagged, bound, and escorted to a cell two tiers down.

How the mighty have fallen.

But here's the weird-as-hell part. Denethor spent all of one night in that cell, locked up without outside contact, and by morning he was calmer. His head seemed clearer, by Pippin's reckoning. Like he was more aware of his surroundings. He even _apologized_ to Boromir for disrupting the council meetings. Since he seemed like less of a dick, his son let him out.

It took _less than a day_ for him to revert back to bug-eyed dipwad. The plot was thickening.

Poor Pippin, though. Every chance he got, he was diving into our quarters to hide from his insane master, stuffing comfort foods in his face and lamenting loudly about how hard it was to smile silently and act attentive when the old bastard got going.

"I'm _trying_," Pippin wailed after Denethor's backslide really took hold. "I'm really trying to smile and nod and not say anything, but he's driving me up a wall! Always muttering to himself things I can't _possibly_ repeat in mixed company. Seeing Orcs in every corner. He's _certain_ you are not the only one harboring one in her quarters. There must be a whole _army_ of them, just waiting for the rest to arrive, at which point they will spring out of hiding and slit all the men's throats before carrying the women off..." He threw his hands up in defeat. "There is no _reasoning_ with him, no_ countering_ his statements with logic or truth or _anything..._"

"Hey, easy," I said, patting his shoulder. "You'll give yourself a heart attack. Chill, dude. Have a biscuit."

You can always calm a Hobbit down with food. Remember that.

"Okay, when he's not being the world's biggest paranoid schizophrenic, what does he get up to? What's he doing?"

Working his way through the dry cookie, Pippin didn't answer for a moment. Ûnran gave him a mug of water to wash it down with. I thought that was rather polite of him, and smiled. Because our day time togetherness was on high alert while Pippin dealt with the Steward, we were lucky to get nookie after dark, so it wasn't particularly shocking to me that a little smile would prompt a lip-curling leer and tongue flick over the teeth.

Ûnran is _such_ a whore.

"He's got this little stone building he goes in a lot," Pippin reported. "He doesn't want me going in there with him, and keeps it locked when he's away."

"Break in," I said automatically. "If he's hiding anything, I'll bet my favorite jammies it's in that building."

"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I'd get into if I stole his key, made a copy rather like this one," he said indignantly, brandishing an ornate bronze key, "and snuck in there after dark tonight with you and Ûnran keeping watch?"

"I don't know, Pip," I said with a smirk. "What kind of trouble?"

"Very big, nasty trouble," he said seriously. "Especially if we do it two hours after the old nutter goes to bed."


	37. Monstrous Horde of Orcs Walks into a Bar

**A Monstrous Horde of Orcs Walks into a Bar...**

Things didn't... quite... work out as planned.

Once we had our scheme laid out and a rendezvous point and time established – shit, all we were missing was a blueprint of the seventh tier and someone chewing a thick cigar – I kicked Pippin's ass out of our room. Leaning against the door, I had myself a good long look at Ûnran, sitting on the divan examining a pomegranate.

"You, uh... look kind of weird," I said softly.

Dropping the fruit, he looked up at me. "Huh?"

Tilting my head to the side, I sort of waved vaguely in his direction. "All those... clothes things. They just don't suit you."

He blinked at me, then looked at himself like I was commenting on the color or style. "Uh... it's whatcha gave me."

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind," I said with a sigh. "Guy like you oughta just be naked. Come on. Haul'em off."

Chuckling, he rose and slowly stripped off his shirt.

"Nice," I commented with a smirk. "All you need is a cowboy hat and assless chaps, you sexy bastard." Winking, I walked up to him and untied the laces of his breeches. He leaned down and inhaled deeply right next to my ear.

"Thought that's what I was smellin'," he murmured.

"Mm-hm," I said, slipping a hand down the front of his pants. He growled low and closed his eyes. "You've got kind of a strong 'fuck me' smell about you, too."

"Yuh sure as fuck better not be teasin' me," he snarled, grabbing my hips.

Drawing back and giving him an amused look, I said, "When have I ever teased you? Get your hot ass in the bedroom and assume the position."

The position for this afternoon being, of course, Tanith Rides Ûnran for the Triple Crown. I kind of wished I had a riding crop for this unruly horse, because he wouldn't stay mounted for long. After a while, he pulled me close and rolled over on top of me. Moving to his knees with a feral, wild look in his eyes, he grabbed my knees and spread me wide, then pounded the _shit_ out of me.

Hot damn, who knew _that_ would feel so good? About all I could do was grab the pillow under my head and dig my nails in. And tell him, with many exhortations to the deity, how close to coming I was.

I was _this close_... like I could see the Promised Land right over his shoulder, almost within reach, when some motherfucker started pounding on our door. Is there some sort of sex-detecting alarm in this place to keep people from having any fun?

"Go the fuck away!" I shrieked, then growled at Ûnran, "Don't you _dare_ stop."

Like he _could_ have. I honestly hadn't ever seen him like this before. His eyes were wide and intense, his lip curled, his breath coming fast in short gasps. His _nostrils_ were quivering, for crying out loud.

He looked every inch the predator, and I came like obedient prey. Holy fucking _shit_, did I come hard. I thought I suddenly caught my third cousin's epilepsy, my body convulsed so much. After he spent himself, he seemed to come out of whatever the hell gripped him, and looked at me in a panic.

"Tanith!" he grunted, sort of collapsing on me, his limbs barely steady enough to hold him up. "Sorry! Sorry!"

Gasping for breath, I embraced him and rubbed his back. "No worries. Shit, that was good."

"But... I was... I was _fuckin'_ yuh!" he said, as if I missed that part. "Didn't wanna _ever_ do that to yuh!"

"Hey, listen," I said, then frowned and glanced past him. Whoever was out there beating the living shit out of my front door hadn't let up. "Hang on," I grumbled, pushing him off me. As I pulled on a shirt and pants, I glanced over my shoulder at his stricken face. "You still love me, Ûnran?"

"Yeah," he insisted, nodding vigorously.

"Then it wasn't fucking," I said. "It was just... really wildly awesome lovemaking. That will probably have me walking funny for a bit, but well worth it." I gave him a reassuring grin that didn't appear to convince him much.

Yay, another thing we'd have to sort out. Sighing, I trudged to the front door. "All right, all right, I'm up. Keep your damn shirt on."

Pippin burst through the door as soon as I had it open. "They're coming!" he cried, wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot. "The enemy has been spotted. They've abandoned Osgiliath and are coming across the fields. _Thousands_ of Orcs and men of the East, huge oliphaunts, siege engines, _trolls_. What shall we do?"

"How close?" I managed to ask. I swear, my throat just about pinched off, and I couldn't breathe. Were they on schedule, or coming early? Didn't Faramir's forces kind of slow them down a tick and give Rohan time to arrive? The very real fear that Boromir's survival had completely screwed up that maneuver hit me full in the stomach and I slid into a chair like a boneless heap.

"Just coming into view," Pippin said, pacing the floor. "They're... taking their time." He cast a nervous eye on me. "The people are terrified. Boromir and Faramir are with the Prince and Gandalf, arraying the soldiers. They fear fire, and are preparing for it. Every rain barrel in the city has been hauled to the lowest tiers."

Air started coming back online and I drew a long breath. "Sounds like they know what... wait, what prince?"

"Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth," Pippin supplied absently. The name was... familiar, but before I could ask who the hell that was, he was off again. "Black Riders fly above on their winged steeds. Their shrieks are horrible, even at such a distance."

"So... they haven't actually _gotten_ here yet?" I asked worriedly. I thought as hard as he was beating on the door, there was a company of them running across the courtyard headed this way.

Pippin shook his head, then darted his eyes to the bedroom door as Ûnran emerged, dressed again (dammit). He'd obviously heard everything and looked really worried himself.

"What, uh... what about Osgi-whatsis?" I asked uncertainly.

"Osgiliath," Pippin said, waving it away as if it was old news. "When Boromir arrived, that was the _first_ thing he attended."

"Attended?"

"He gave them orders to hold on for a few days, which they did, then he pulled them back," Pippin replied like I should have known. "They are behind the walls in the first tier with the rest of Gondor's forces. Dol Amroth's men are in the second. Other allies are housed in the third and fourth. The rest of the tiers are packed quite tightly with civilians and folk from the Pelennor Fields, come to seek refuge. The Orcs sacked the city and have only just this morning begun their march. We are to be besieged. Did you not know?"

"Uh...," I said uneasily. The fact that every moment Pippin wasn't in our room bitching about Denethor I spent on my back with my legs in the air sort of made me a touch embarrassed. "Didn't really... I mean, yes, I knew a siege was coming, I just thought we'd try to hold Osgi-thingy first."

Pippin shook his head. "Boromir felt the loss of life would have been too dear. The city is indefensible; half has been overrun with the enemy for some time."

"Okay, so what now?" I asked. "Are we still on for..." I waggled my eyebrows significantly.

Giving me an apologetic look, Pipping shook his head. "No, I am afraid. I am to run messages between the command center on the first tier and the others." He slumped a little and grimaced. "I have not eaten since noon and there is no hope of tea being offered."

"Soldiers are single-minded in their cruelty," I said sympathetically, patting his knee. He nodded sadly. "So I guess our plans are on hold. Let's hope the old bastard doesn't flip a shit after some starts flying at the walls."

* * *

><p>I came to the conclusion that sieges suck <em>hard<em>. Rations were cut to damn near nothing. Now, I'd survived on short rations with the guys since there weren't vending machines in the wilds, so this wasn't too bad, really. The silver lining was that, without a well-stocked buffet in our suite and messenger duties keeping him on the run, Pippin had almost no incentive to hike all the way up to our tier. Too bad neither one of us was even slightly randy.

My nerves were totally shot, and Ûnran was kind of a basket case too. About all we could do, because holy shit, now's not the time to parade an _Orc_ through the streets of Minas Tirith, was hang out in our room looking out the window onto the terrace, or meander around the gardens on the sixth tier outside the House of Healing. With an armed guard trailing along behind. And who knew how many lurking in the shadows.

Okay, Ûnran likely knew exactly how many and where, but he just scowled and kept his mouth shut about it.

Because Denethor didn't have anything else better to do, he watched _us_. Oh yeah. We couldn't walk a step without catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of our eyes. It got to be a joke after the first day.

_Did you see him? _

_Yeah. Over there, trying to hide behind a bush. _

_Go piss on it._

Shit, who needs the Brat when you've got Ûnran?

We didn't laugh for long, though. By evening, the Orcs were at the walls. Pippin gave us a brief run-down of what was happening, but it was all a military mess of mumbo-jumbo to me. The men on the walls were using various short-range catapults to launch all manner of crap on the Orcs' heads, and I think Pippin said they were getting the oil nice and hot as well. Nothing says 'get the fuck away from the walls' like great cauldrons full of boiling oil dumped on your head. But that wasn't the _worst_ part.

It was the Nazgûl, winging about on their big ugly dragony things, picking folks off the walls and dropping them like meat bombs on the men below, that ruined what would otherwise have been a straight-up fight. We stopped walking around out in the open by midday, and kept to our rooms quietly freaking out after one of them grabbed a stable boy off the sixth and sent him flying into the seething masses in front of the gates.

And the _noise_. This wasn't a Grinchy bitching about _noise, noise, noise, NOISE_. I can't even _guess_ at how many thousands were down there. The Orcs were chanting so loudly and stomping their feet so hard you could damn near _feel_ it way up on the seventh tier. And I _swear_ I could see those big elephant things off in the distance. Again, why can't shit like that be cinematic license?

By nightfall, Ûnran and I were huddled in bed with the lights out and no fire in the hearth. Not even under the blankets all naked and cozy. We were dressed and hugging one another because damn it, if they breached the walls, we were _both_ dead. He knew it, I knew it. They'd be just as unforgiving of him standing around with his thumb up his ass as the Uruk-hai likely would've been at Helm's Deep, not helping the Orcs with even a half-hearted murder of a minor official to his credit. Nope, he was wrapped around a woman and muttering under his breath about all the ways they were going to kill him.

Actually, Ûnran was the least of my worries. At this point, the movies would tell me that Strider was leading a pack of pissed off ghosts to the docks and taking over a load of ships. At this moment, the Rohirrim were (hopefully) running their asses off to make it in time for a sunrise ass-kicking. I had _no idea_ if any of that was true. I'd proven repeatedly that Jackson was a monstrous liar and couldn't be counted on to lead a rat through a maze with cheese at every turn, let alone a hapless boob of a fangirl through the entire epic saga.

But it was like when I was in Moria, knowing the nasties were coming, and wanting Ûnran near because _he'd_ know how to deal with them. He was _here_ now, and I held on to him with every limb. Even knowing that _this_ time, there were _way_ too many for him to fight, that they weren't his buddies from Isengard and wouldn't pay any attention to his posturing or pleading, and that if he died, I'd die _with_ him... I felt safe. Able to at least _breathe_, as if every one was my last.

After awhile, I realized he'd stopped mumbling and was sitting quietly, his arms around me. I was sitting on his lap, tempting glandular fate as usual, but for once he wasn't rising to the challenge of girl ass on his bits.

"Ain't a coward," he said tightly, and I nodded.

"I know," I replied.

"Anybody comes through that door, I'll fuckin' kill'em."

"Um... maybe you should, you know, check their ID first, huh?" I suggested delicately. I'd hate to see Pippin turned into road pizza because Ûnran was feeling a little tense.

"Ain't nobody gettin' to yuh, Tanith," he growled. His breathing got a bit deeper and faster. "Yer mine. Ain't givin' yuh up. Ain't steppin' aside. Ain't... leavin' yuh." He turned his head to look at me. His yellow eyes had a fierce gleam. "My _mate_."

I nodded again, slowly. "Yeah. And you're _mine_."

He jerked his chin and fixed his eyes through the bedroom door to the front door, likely daring all comers to challenge him on it.

I had the strange feeling that, with so few words, I'd just _really_ married him. Like, finally said my half of the _I __dos_. For better or for worse.

* * *

><p>Vacation time was officially over when a dude in a dress came by the following morning asking for my assistance in the House of Healing. Wounded were starting to pour in and they needed every hand. Now, I've proven on at least a few occasions that great gouts of blood and gore tend to make me hurl or faint. Sometimes both. But I couldn't just tell them to fuck off. And honestly, without Pippin's hourly reports, Ûnran and I were completely in the dark about what was going on down in the first few tiers. So off I went, leaving my anxious lover locked in our room because if parading an Orc down the streets during a siege was in poor taste, just imagine how awful it would be traipsing one around the wounded.<p>

Well. I imagine I don't need to provide details of _why_ I had to carry my own bucket around.

The soldiers hadn't actually engaged with the Orcs too much just yet. A couple of siege towers tried to unload some troops over the walls early on, but a quick peppering of flaming arrows set the towers alight and discouraged that sort of behavior. What made the men nervous was the approach of something big and nasty and wolf-like, and I suddenly remembered that monstrous battering ram with the wolf head. _That_ thing broke through the gates in the movie, and a couple of the men who'd been flattened on the second tier told me they could see it coming a mile away.

Now, the _weird_ thing was that someone mentioned 'strange projectiles.' I could _not_ get anyone to explain this to me. I was relieved as hell when Pippin showed up in the company of a few Tower Guards who'd been bonked pretty hard by shrapnel or something, and needed an ice pack and stitches. Sidling up to the Hobbit, I asked him what was going on down there.

"The Orcs are harrying the men on the walls," he informed me, which was pretty much old news I heard every time one of the men from the walls was brought in. Sighing, I prodded him a bit, and he relented. "It is difficult to know what is happening in all places, but I will try. The Black Riders on wings are swooping down upon folk, whether soldier or common man, and flinging them into our forces. Many standing idle awaiting the loss of the gate are dismayed, for the cries of the beasts are chilling and the wraiths' power to sap their wills is great. But they hold on," he added grimly. "No fire is begun that men are not immediately dowsing it. No boulder is thrown that it is not swiftly returned with several fellows. The Orcs are not able to come within a hundred yards of the walls without paying a dear cost."

"Good," I said, nodding. "So the 'strange projectiles' a few of these guys were talking about was just..."

"Oh, yes," Pippin said uncomfortably and shifted a little. "_That_."

I gave him a minute before prompting a bit sarcastically, "_Yes. That_. What? What 'that'? What's been happening?"

"Well," Pippin said carefully, "they only did it the one time. Or... well... perhaps twice. Or thrice. It is difficult to tell, for the battlements stretch far and..."

"Will you _tell_ me, for crying out loud?" I griped in exasperation.

"Trolls," he said simply. I blinked, uncomprehending. He pursed his lips. I swear, I thought he was going to laugh. He apparently guessed what I was thinking.

"I should not laugh," Pippin said, valiantly trying to keep his face straight. "Men died when it landed. But... the look on its face as it came over the walls... arms windmilling in a panic... I do not think it quite understood the full measure of its task until that moment."

For the first time since coming to Middle Earth, I nearly wet my pants for a reason _other _than terror in the face of an oncoming enemy. I had to clench my jaw hard just to keep from howling. The image in my head... Oh my god. Well, I guess that's what happens when you don't collect enough heads to throw. You start looking for really big asses.

"Um... did they... um... survive?"

"Not for long, no," Pippin said, his voice pitched a little higher. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips tightly together.

"That's good, then," I said, trying for seriously interested. "No... bruised and bewildered trolls wandering around the lower tiers."

"A true blessing," he agreed.

"Bouncing off the walls."

"It would cause quite a stir."

"Tripping over napkins."

"They're dangerous things, place settings."

"Indeed."

We had to stare at each other threateningly for a full minute to make sure no mirth was sneaking out. The House of Healing was like a library/tomb/church/temple thingy all rolled into one, and damn you to hell if you disturbed the fucking peace.

"I must return," Pippin noted, getting up from the bench we were sitting on. I rose with him. "There is talk that the Orcs' battering ram is coming closer. We expect it to be at the gates by morning, if our archers are not able to stop the advance before then." Growing serious, he touched my arm. "How fares Ûnran?"

Shrugging, I said, "As well as can be expected, I guess. He's nervous and agitated. He can't leave our room and it frustrates him."

"It is not safe, not now," the Hobbit said urgently. "Though the absence of any rumors of mischief has quelled many murderous thoughts, there are still those who... well, who would do him harm were he to show his face. It is better that he does not provoke any rash actions and remains hidden."

I nodded. "Aye aye, Cap'n."

* * *

><p>Before dawn the following day, the arrival of the battering ram from hell was duly noted by a thunderous crash that echoed clear up to the seventh tier and rattled the furnishings in our room. Ûnran and I bolted awake.<p>

"The fuck is that?" he breathed, wide-eyed with shock.

"_That_ would be Grond," I informed him. I swear, it took me all night to remember what it was called. Having a name for it didn't make it any less scary as all fuck. "I don't think it'll take more than a couple of swings..."

A second boom shifted the bed beneath us a few inches.

"Crap," I whispered, staring at him. Ûnran swallowed hard.

He put on a brave, fierce face. "Don't matter. Ain't gettin' to yuh. Won't let'em."

Throwing my arms around his neck, I held on tightly. "We'll win. We _have_ to win. We're _supposed_ to win. I didn't do _anything_ to keep that from happening. Except... well, maybe somehow accidentally keeping Boromir alive, but _aside from that_..."

The third strike against the gates had _and the walls came tumbling down_ written all over it.

"Oh fuck," I whimpered, and nearly climbed into his clothes. You know, if he'd been wearing more than pants. Because believe it or not, neither of us was in any kind of _mood_.

We weren't sitting there holding on to each other for dear life more than five minutes before the front doorknob started rattling like a pissed off snake's tail. Naturally, I assumed it was Pippin and slid out of bed. I was wearing that slutty nightgown, but he'd dropped by _numerous_ times when it was the closest thing I could grab in a rush, so I didn't even think about it as I went to open the door.

It wasn't Pippin standing there looking pissed beyond reason on my front stoop.

"Um... hi," I said uncomfortably. Denethor was just quivering and glaring and foaming at the mouth and panting... Okay, maybe not the last two, but you could tell he wasn't far off from that sort of rage.

"They have broken my gates," he snarled. "There is battle _within my walls_. My sons... my _sons_... and _you_..."

I could tell where his eyes were lingering. Unlike when Gandalf noticed the nibble-field and blushed, Denethor's face contorted with fury and his fists _clenched_. I had the distinct feeling that he was a hair's breadth from slugging me.

Holding up a cautioning finger, I said unsteadily, "Now listen here..."

His eyes darted over my shoulder and I closed mine. Great. Just what I needed.

"Get the fuck out," Ûnran growled as he approached. Stopping next to me, he looked _down_ on Denethor (I had no idea he was actually _taller_ than the Steward) and bared his teeth. "We ain't done _nothin'_."

"I should have ordered your death from the first moment," Denethor hissed. "Your coming has brought us to ruin." His eyes darted to me and flicked up and down. I suddenly realized he meant 'coming' in other contexts as well.

Oh, you bastard.

"Apparently you missed an important point somewhere back in the narrative," I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. And under my boobs, as it happens, so even _more_ well-gnawed cleavage was presented. Jesus. "Between the _two_ of us, we ensured your oldest, most favorite, brightest, and _coolest_ son was able to come home. Between the _two_ of us, we brought you a very capable, level-headed, _sane_ commander for your army. _Between the two of us_, we managed, _somehow_, to earn the _respect_ of Théoden _and_ Treebeard _and_... probably other people."

"You _lie_ with it," the Steward growled, pointing at Ûnran but looking at _me_, as if the Uruk wasn't in the room or he just didn't want to acknowledge that he was.

"Is that a crime?" I asked challengingly. "No, really. Do you have some law somewhere that specifically says, 'citizens must not shag Orcs'? You're the one in charge; I'm sure you have all the books memorized. Pony up; show me the statute, and _maybe_ we'll talk."

He _sputtered_. His face twitched. There was a distinct flavor of 'no fucking leg to stand on in a court of law' about his contortionist expressions.

"At least where _I_ come from, we had to _remove_ laws against interracial stuff like this," I snapped. "Looks to me like you don't have any kind of job on your hands that even comes _close_. So go... the fuck... _away_."

Thankfully, the Brat followed through on the rest. I flat-palmed Denethor's chest, staggering him back a few steps, and slammed the door in his face.

Turning to Ûnran, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Why do I get the feeling that there will be a flaming Steward ball flung from the battlements in the next hour?"


	38. Uruk-Hai Just Ain't As Interesting

**Plain Old Uruk-Hai Just Ain't As Interesting as Mordor Orcs**

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields was terrifying, exciting, exhilarating, nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat kind of nerve-wracking... when I saw it in the theater for the first time. Actually living through it at an elevation of forty miles, or however high up the seventh tier was, did not remotely thrill me. What scared me out of my wits most of the time was that I didn't know _what_ the hell was going on at the battlefront. Once that gate came down, there was maybe a ratchetting up of noise, but no real change.

Except Pippin was dismissed from messenger duties, and guess where he decided to hang out? Duh. My room. Hey, it was either that or go out of his way to track down the basket case Steward. No one in their right mind would do _that_.

Basically, while the shit-storm was exploding all over the lowest levels, I was snuggled up against Ûnran on the couch with a nervously pacing Pippin wearing a hole in the throw rug.

"Slow down, Pip," I told him. "A little less auction barker, little more detail. What the hell is going on down there?"

He halted and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "It was _him_," he hissed finally. "The Ringwraith that stabbed Frodo. I _remembered_ him... it. I could _feel_ that it was him. After the gate fell, he just... rode through. Gandalf made me come up here. He said that I must bring news of what had happened to the Steward, that the gate fell..."

"Jerk already knew," I supplied sarcastically. "He stopped by for a minute to give us the good news." Rolling my eyes, I glanced at an equally annoyed Ûnran. "We didn't invite him in for tea."

"Perhaps that is just as well, for I could not find him in the tower," Pippin shrugged. "I did not wish to go hunting for him with those Black Riders flying about. In any case, I do not know what became of the Ringwraith at the gate, for Gandalf faced him alone. And now..."

The Hobbit's pacing brought him around to facing the front door and the little window beside it. All of a sudden, he froze and stared. Naturally, being the paranoid schizoid that I am, I whirled around, expecting to see an Orc, a Ringwraith, or a frothing Steward – maybe all three – standing in my foyer. To my utter shock, nobody was there, but there was _light_ streaming in through the window.

Well, color _us_ surprised. The three of us wandered out the door (not far because we didn't want to get picked off by flying assholes). The huge cloud bank custom-made by Sauron and shipped west to darken our days and Orc up our nights was fading in the east. The _sun_ was rising, _and_ shining on the horizon. Talk about relief; we hadn't seen it in _days_. I found myself reaching over and clasping hands with Ûnran, it was so awesome a sight.

I had to wonder what the hell happened in Mordor to fuck up Sauron's weather control. Did Frodo give him the finger? Or crap, did he put on the Ring _while in Sauron's back yard_? Well, whatever happened, the storm appeared to be blowing over, and that would probably be good for _us_, at least.

Naturally, since boys are always more interested in that crap than girls, Ûnran and Pippin reached some unspoken agreement to take a stroll way out on the spur thing that overlooked the gates. You know, the one made famous in the third movie as the jumping off point for the flaming Steward ball? Yeah... these guys wanted to take a peek over the edge and see what was happening. I hadn't set foot on it since coming here because _my_ recollection was that there were no OSHA-approved handrails around the thing. And guess what! The wind blows _harder_ the higher up you are. Not taking any chances, guys.

As you can imagine, lacking a penis, I was out-voted. They were counting hands _and_ glans, the bastards. I could only raise _one_ without embarrassing myself.

I kept a discreet distance of about forty yards. Too far for a three point conversion, but close enough to make out what team they were on if I squinted. After a couple of minutes, they were obviously very excited – _both_ of them – and running back to me.

"Rohan has come!" Pippin shouted, nearly bowling me over with a knee-hug. "We can see them! They come from the north, through the breach in the wall. _Thousands_ of horsemen!"

"Aye," Ûnran added, a look of relief on his face. "That lot down below us's gettin' it from Gondor now. They're pushin'em back from the gates."

There was actually a rather odd expression on Ûnran's face. Part relief, because who _wouldn't_ be thrilled not to have to face a whole bunch of cousins you've never met who likely wouldn't approve of your lifestyle choices? But also that bit of discomfort I last saw at Helm's Deep and even a bit in Isengard, when we were surrounded by his former buddies. It hit me that this wasn't one hundred percent acceptable to him, this whole 'sleeping with the Enemy' thing.

I'm sure the _literal_ part of that was fine and dandy, but the appearance of having sold out and betrayed everything he _was_ probably weirded him out a little sometimes. But the truth of the matter was, he'd changed. He wasn't the same kind of Orc he was when he was in Isengard, probably not the same one who fell out of the mud in a heap that day ages ago when I had a nap in Tom Bombadil's house.

Could I equate him with a wild animal that's been born in captivity and doesn't know how to survive in the wild? Almost, I think. Unlike all his friends in that cesspool valley, he was watching _me_ every day. Sexy fun time fantasies aside, he was exposed to a completely different world every time he closed his eyes, just as much as I was.

The difference being that I didn't feel like I was missing out on something fun and exciting when I saw what he had to go through. _He_, on the other hand likely longed to be part of my world because it didn't hurt, it didn't abuse, it didn't humiliate, it didn't make you feel like shit just for drawing a breath.

But forgetting _all_ of that, or just sort of pushing it aside a little, Ûnran was an Orc. He would always _be_ an Orc. There was no masking it or forgetting it or ignoring it. What probably made it all hardest on him was that he loved me. He made a choice to be with me, and that meant a lot of things had to change for him. It wasn't easy to do, regardless that he'd gotten daily lessons on the way humans behaved. Making that choice, to live among _us_, probably made him feel like shit every time he saw the ones who _didn't_ have the same choices, and got butchered because of it.

I couldn't believe it took me so long to realize it, see _his_ side of things. Made me want to give him a hug, you know? Definitely some quality time on the boob pillow. Which, I'm proud to say, he knew well how to arrange _just so_ when he had a hankerin'.

As usual, though, there wasn't time to deal with it _right now_. As usual, there were too many _other_ ears around, too many _things_ happening. Maybe later... when the battle ended and stuff took a break for awhile.

For now, I pretty much sagged with relief myself. If Rohan had arrived, that meant the tide would turn, asses would be kicked, and very soon a swarm of pissed off dead guys would arrive on ships with Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas. Boromir was... well, who knew where. Likely directing shit down below. Merry would be with Éowyn among the Rohirrim, so really soon the Fellowship would be nearly full up again.

I didn't have to ask Pippin to know what he was thinking. Could all of this mess get cleaned up in time for elevensies?

Naturally, when things start to look bright again, along comes healer-guy-in-a-dress looking for 'voluntolds' to come help with the sudden influx of wounded. Evidently, the fight at the gates wasn't as clean and unexciting as it looked from way up in the stratosphere.

Leaving the boys to go hide in our room, I trudged after the healer. I was actually kind of glad the guy wasn't interested in Pippin's help (probably couldn't see him, the blind old bastard). Ûnran needed the company. Sitting by yourself in a silent room was sucky at best. What was interesting was how they both looked a little uncomfortable with the prospect of having to spend who knew how long _together_. And I thought they got along just fine. Evidently, I constituted the social bridge between them, and without me managing the communication, it was going to be awkward.

Hey. It's good for them. Go to it, boys. Maybe you'll find something in common between you. Something other than that field trip we all took across the Plains of Rohan. Maybe that shouldn't be the 'shared experience that brings us together.'

I, on the other hand, got to haul a bucket to catch my puke as I once more made the rounds in the House of Healing down on the sixth floor. Since I'm pathetic with a needle on fabric, let alone flesh, and even the _idea _of poking one into someone almost made me faint, I was the step-and-fetch-it gal. I was 'assigned' to a pair of crotchety old men who treated me like their slightly addled granddaughter. Again, the names were horrible to pronounce and impossible to remember. I think one was Saehul, and the other one was Barathíl. So I called them Salad and Bar.

To my dismay, I found out a lot more details about the battle going on than I cared to hear. Alas that the wounds sustained by the brave men of Gondor didn't involve their god damn _vocal cords_.

To begin with, the Ringwraith turned tail as soon as he heard Rohan's horns blowing, because everyone behind him heard it too, and they started to shit their drawers. Yeah, Gondor's not the patsy you _thought_, huh? Got some big, mean friends who heard you were bullying us for our lunch money. How do you like _them_ apples, huh?

As if knocking down the gates and finding themselves staring down an assload of rested, well-fed, extremely pissed soldiers of Gondor didn't already put the Orcs in a very awkward position.

Even wounded with limbs nearly severed, these soldier still found it in themselves to inspire bucket-filling on my part with their vivid descriptions of vivisectioning the oncoming horde, hurling body parts out of the way so they could reposition the ballistae, skewering oncoming trolls with said ballistae at close quarters, choking the gateway with Orc corpses as they pushed the enemy forces back...

You know, I didn't watch _Saving Private Ryan_ because the previews alone made me nauseous, and now I had to listen to these guys comparing notes across the aisle about whether chopping off heads was easier with a curved or straight blade. What the hell? My _brother_ didn't even indulge that sort of topic at the dinner table, and he'd covered Thai brothels with relish. And gross profanity.

I had to tune them out after awhile. At least the soldiers didn't know specifically who _I_ was. I could just imagine how the conversation would deviate if they knew I was the one getting banged by an Orc in the guest quarters.

_We showed them no mercy, did we, Stanley?_

_Aye, we didn't, Bob. Gave those Orcs what-for and no mistake._

_Rather like this lass does every twenty minutes on the top tier, eh? Nudge-nudge?_

_Say no more. I've heard tell she prefers sausage with her breakfast, wink-wink, if you know what I mean._

_Very **dark** sausage. Four times a day._

_Only four? She's a good, strong lass. I trust she can put away nigh on a dozen if she sets her mind to it._

_And her feet._

_Aye. She'd definitely need to set her feet good and firm._

Yeah, _fuck_ you.

As it turned out, I was on hand when they brought in Éowyn. Now, I'd _expected_ this. I _knew_ she would have a testosterone make-over done and trot gleefully into battle. I knew she'd skewer the Witch King and make him sorry he ever made fun of girls. And honestly, I'd only spent maybe an hour with her the whole time I was in Rohan. But seeing her beaten up, unconscious, and pale as death, black blood spattered all over her because she didn't just avoid all the fun looking specifically for Ringwraith ass to kick, I almost cried. Really. That was one brave lady, ten times the chainmail chick I'd _ever_ be.

While I was sniffling and whimpering, anxiously hovering over the healers trying to strip her down and clean her off as discreetly as they could so they could assess the damage without noticing her boobs, it hit me like a ton of bricks that if she was _here_, then that meant Théoden was dead.

I had to go sit down. That amazingly cool old man who _understood_ what it was like to be a slave to a son of a bitch of a wizard, and by word _alone_ ensured that his people didn't take out their anger on Ûnran because he was conveniently handy. By his word, five Uruk-hai who surrendered at Helm's Deep were allowed to live. By his word, two dozen Orcs and Uruk-hai from Isengard were taken prisoner instead of gutted were they stood.

He'd kissed my hand, even knowing I had a ridiculously inappropriate friendship with an Orc. I had to bite my lip, but it didn't help at all. I sat on that bench and cried like my own grandfather had just died. After a while, another thought entered my mind and effectively sobered the tears and put some major-ass worry on my face.

What would happen to all those Orcs with _É__omer_ on the throne?

Of course, I couldn't take it for granted. I'd been wrong about this kind of thing before. Wiping my tears away, I hunted down the litter-bearers who brought Éowyn up. They were on their way back down to fetch more.

"Hey, was there anyone else from Rohan brought up? Anyone sort of... king-looking?"

One of them looked at me a little apologetically and replied, "We have not entered the battlefield. The woman was brought to the first tier with other wounded. We have only seen those that can be saved. If any are beyond aid, they will be left upon the field until it is safe to fetch them hither. Do you speak of Rohan's king?"

I nodded, not trusting myself not to say something sarcastic. I mean crap, _Gondor_ doesn't have a god damned king. What other king would I be talking about?

His forehead pinched a bit. "I have heard rumors that he perished, milady. But take heart!" he said as I crumpled. What little hope I'd tried stupidly to cling to was smothered. "It is said he slew the Lord of the Nazgûl ere he fell. Much of the foul creatures' will was shattered by their chieftain's defeat. I am certain our forces continue to prevail."

"Let's get one thing straight," I growled fiercely, thrusting a finger in his face. He stepped back, wide-eyed and startled. "Rohan's _king_ didn't kill that thing. _She_ did. Don't let _anyone_ think otherwise, because it would be a _lie_. They said the Lord of the Nazgûl couldn't be killed by men. Well, he didn't count on the deadliness of pissed off women, did he?"

Honestly, the poor guy probably didn't deserve a dressing down by the Brat, but I wasn't about to let the wrong information spread around town. Éowyn risked everything for a chance at something her people only let her _dream_ about but never attain. Because she was brave enough to actually _do it_, Sauron was now one Black Rider short. Talk about a poke in the Eye.

Well, poor litter-bearer shuffled off with embarrassment and I went back to work ripping cloth for bandages. I came to the conclusion that when they wove cloth for band-aids, they made huge bolts of it and you had to actually tear the shit into strips to get your bandages. They didn't just make extra-narrow strips of cloth. What an inefficient way of doing things if it meant me getting carpal tunnel so these guys didn't bleed to death.

The Salad Bar guys kept me running for _hours_. Not long after Éowyn was brought in, the wounded started taking on a lighter-complected, distinctly Nordic flavor. I found out that Éomer was the one who found his sister (and likely did a much _louder_ double-take than in the movie). I _also_ learned that Theoden's body wasn't left out there to wait for the litter-bearers to take a smoke break; he was brought up to the Hallows pretty quickly, whatever the hell that was.

Now here's another instance of The Big Jacksonian Lie. A pair of Rohirrim were brought up, one of whom was in pretty sorry shape. The other one, though, had been at Éomer's side, surrounded by Orcs, when the famous black-sailed ships arrived, coming upriver from the south. Naturally, I was thrilled. While I don't have a particular liking for the undead, considering how we met in this place, the idea of a pack of them under Strider's command was terribly appealing. I mean really, soldiers you can't kill because they're already dead? Suck on that!

Imagine my dismay...

"Oh! The black-sailed ships!"

"Aye, lass," the Rohirrim soldier replied tiredly. "We thought it was our doom. Corsairs with black sails; those Men of Gondor who were with us cried out in dismay. Then there unfurled the banner of Kings, as they told us, and our hearts were gladdened. They were Men of the West, come to our aid!"

"I bet you cheered when all those dead guys came off the ships in a huge green cloud, huh?" I said eagerly, and he frowned.

"Dead? No, milady, they were not dead," he said, shaking his head. "They were living Men, thousands of them."

How nice to have rammed my foot home so thoroughly. "Uh... my mistake. So... good for them, huh?"

"Indeed," he said, settling on his pillow. "And us. They turned the battle in our favor, that is certain. The Orcs were routed and we were able to press our advantage..."

At this point it became 'soldier-speke' and I had to find my inner give-a-crap, nodding in appropriate places, gasping with shock at the right moments. That sort of thing. For once, getting interrupted by Salad and Bar was a relief rather than an opportunity to beg for the sweet relief of death. Or at least deafness.

The sun was starting to creep toward late afternoon, I noticed, when a particularly bad-off guy wearing blue emblems of some allied force or other was brought in, and it was clear his leg needed to go. I seriously wanted to make myself scarce at that point. Seriously. But the Salad Bar wanted me there to _hold the guy down_. Yeah. _Me_. What, sit on his chest? What the hell? I reminded those guys that I wouldn't last five minutes if they broke out the saw, but they didn't pay any attention to me. _You've held up quite well under the circumstances; there's no reason to think_...

Dey don't know me vewwy well, do dey?

As soon as the saw began to slice through the guy's leg and he screamed _bloody murder_ right next to me, because I was trying to hold his shoulders down as he gripped the bed frame with fists of steel, I _thoroughly_ held him down with my entire body as I passed out and fell on him.

Next thing I knew, I was coming out of it on a spare bed off in a corner, but not _alone_ in a corner. I could hear Salad and Bar talking.

"What are we to _do_ with it? I do not want to even _touch_ it," Salad whispered fiercely. I cracked an eye open. Thankfully, they were a few yards away and not looking at _me_. I'd overheard enough discreet conversations about me to last a lifetime.

No, it appeared what they were talking about was the fucking _Orc_ tied down on the bed across from me, growling and snarling at anyone who came near.

Yeah. _Orc_. Two questions came immediately to mind: one, how the _hell_ long was I out cold, and two, what the _fuck_ happened down on the battlefield that an _Orc_ was now all the way up here on the sixth tier in the care of the _healers_?

Sitting up, I noticed he wasn't the only one; there were two others who were themselves completely dead to the world on beds next to the rowdy one. I just sat there for several minutes, staring at them without a clue what to think.

"We have orders from Lord Faramir himself," Bar scolded Salad. "He is well secured; we have only to mend his wounds, then he may be returned to the holding cell on the first tier." He gestured to the half dozen grim-faced soldiers nearby. Obviously Mr. Crabby's escort.

"What of the other two?" Salad whined. "They are surely past hope. Why were they brought at all? Better to have left them..."

"They cling yet to life," Bar snapped. "We must do what we can. The Captain _and_ his brother insisted."

"But they are _Orcs_," Salad hissed.

Bar seemed to debate for a few moments, then shook his head. "We are sworn to a benevolent duty, Saehul. We must not shirk it for personal reasons."

"But... _Orcs_," Salad tried again, and Bar held up a warning hand.

"Enough," he said firmly.

By now I was getting up and heading towards the pissiest looking Orc the world had ever known. I really hoped those ropes would hold.

As soon as I got close to the foot of his bed, the Orc's head swung around sharply and his blood-red eyes focused on me. I froze; this guy didn't look anything like the Pitmaster.

How does one describe something so incredibly ugly there's no adjective strong enough to properly convey that kind of ugly? He had _furrows_ dug in his face that had been clamped together with Middle Earth-style staples. From the middle of his forehead, over his sharp nose to his upper lip was what looked like an axe wound from ages ago. No staples on _that _one; apparently he'd gone for something fancier and held the edges of the wound together with several rings. There was a particularly big one through his thick nostril on the same side as the hideous gash. His skin was ash-grey and _covered_ in the kind of bumps you see on toads. I didn't _think_ they were boils or some kind of chronic rash, but I wasn't about to get any closer to poke at one and find out.

Both his ears were laddered with rings, too. He was completely blinged out all over his head in one way or another. It wouldn't surprise me to discover he had nipple rings and a pierced foreskin as well.

For the record, I had _no inclination_ to solve that mystery.

"Here now, Tanith," Bar chided, coming over and taking my arm. "You should not go near them. They are fresh from the battlefield; very dangerous."

"Is it over, then?" I asked.

"Yes, quite," he replied, still trying to steer me away gently. I refused to budge. "Come along."

"No, I think I might be of some help here, don't you think?" I asked significantly, raising my eyebrows.

He gave me a stern look. "Miss Walker..."

"Whassat I smell?" the Orc growled suddenly. I glanced over, and he was sniffing the air in my general direction.

Oh lord...

"Nothing!" I said quickly. "Just your imagination. Go back to sleep." I tried an innocent grin on for size. He didn't buy it. A pox on Orc noses!

"Know what I smells," he growled, then a slow grin crept across his face. Perfect. Oh wait, before you go spouting my dirty little secrets, let's gather a bigger audience, shall we? Son of a bitch... He jerked his chin in my direction. "You been fuckin' Orcs. _Tsk tsk_. Naughty li'l girl."

I gave him a withering look that made him cackle maniacally.

"Bar, do you have a cudgel or sap or some other blunt object for putting patients under for surgery?" I asked sweetly.

Well, the old man was wincing painfully and couldn't reply. Salad had decided his services were best utilized in removing the other Orcs' armor and kept his head down, concentrating far too much on his task. Coward.

"Oh right, Bar, like it's not _all over the god damned city_," I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. "As if this is _such_ a shocking revelation. _As if_ you haven't come to my room to fetch me for errand duty and _Ûnran's_ answered the god damned door. Like having an Orc in my quarters didn't _give it away_. As if you didn't hear a damn thing about the Bloody Linen Breakfast Fiasco. _As if_."

"It is not my business...," he whimpered quietly, and I rolled my eyes heavenward.

"How has that stopped _anyone_ from talking about it?" I asked. "Honestly Bar, I imagine it's all you _think_ about every time you look at me, so why don't you get your questions out now. Regale us with your thoughts on the matter. I just can't _wait_ to hear all about it. And I'm sure our guest here will hang on every word, too. Go on," I urged with a gesture. "Say it."

Bar's eyes flicked back and forth between me and the Orc, and now I looked at him myself. Painfully, because he was one ugly motherfucker.

Okay, there's butt-ugly when you're snarling and grimacing and contorting with hate and rage, then there's a whole different kind of ugly when you look like you've been hit with a brick and aren't sure you're hearing what you _think_ you're hearing. Still ugly, mind you, but a different... flavor of ugly.

Swell.

"I simply... do not... the thought of you... and that _Orc_... makes me ill," he said with awkward dignity. "But my lords Faramir and Boromir speak highly of him. I am obliged to keep my... opinions to myself. No matter... the churning of my stomach."

"Well, I suppose that's honest," I nodded. "Thank you. We should probably see about... this guy's injuries, you think?"

"Yes," he replied stiffly. "They must be grievous if he was sent here for tending."

"Probably," I agreed, and finally turned my full attention on the Orc as Bar pulled up a stool and started divesting the Orc of his stinky leather armor.

He was staring at me as if I came from another planet. Which, according to Gandalf, I _didn't_. Sighing, I fetched a stool and started to sit on his other side when Salad freaked out over one of the other Orcs.

"Sweet Valar, it's female!" he cried, stepping back like her tits were going to explode or something. I turned, and saw that he'd taken off all her armor, leaving her rather vulnerably naked and unconscious in a room full of enemies. _Male_ enemies.

"Hey, what the hell is your problem?" I snapped, heading for the linen closet. Good god, were these guys so freaking inept? Not even the decency to cover the poor thing.

Well, the Orc Bar was trying to clean off so he could figure out where he was hurt nearly shot off the bed. Sort of. I mean, he was pretty securely tied to it, but that didn't stop him from fighting like crazy to get free.

"Don't you fucking _tarks_ touch'er! Get yer mits off!" he sputtered in a fury. "Get off her! Fuckin' kill the lot'uh yuh, yuh touch'er again!"

"Hey, hey, easy now," I said soothingly as I spread a blanket modestly over her. "Nobody's going to hurt her, okay? I'll make sure of it." Giving Salad the stink-eye, I growled, "Show some god damned respect, will you?"

Salad swallowed uncomfortably and said, "I have never seen... a _female_."

"Oh dude, you don't want to be admitting that in front of all your friends," I warned semi-kiddingly.

He shot me a rather miffed look. "I _mean_ of _their_ kind."

"Oh right, right," I nodded, then looked askance at the Orc, mouthing _No he hasn't_ and shaking my head. The hesitant grin of shared amusement at some _other_ poor bastard's expense teased one side of his mouth.

Sitting between the crabby Orc's bed and the... erm... _lady_ Orc's, I made sure I had both of them in my line of sight. Salad grimaced the whole time he was touring the female's landscape, and I kept stealing glances at her face.

I could definitely see why you'd think she was a guy. Her face was very rugged, to put it mildly. Not as plagued with toad-skin as Mister Pissy, but rough and scarred. She had a few fresh cuts on her face, but the bulk of them seemed to be around her belly, including a stab wound in the appendix region. Salad had a hard time hiding her woman parts while he cleaned _that_ wound out, let me tell you. There were a couple of deep, long cuts down her left leg, but I thought what had put her under was a blow to the head. Even in the short time she'd been lying there, the pillow was soaked with black blood. The other out-of-it Orc had the side of his head bashed in with something, and looked like major amounts of corrective surgery were going to be required to reconstruct his right eye socket. Saving the eye was probably beyond anyone's ability around here.

Frowning, I turned to Crabby Patty and asked, "What the hell happened to them? They look like they've been kicked to death by horses or something."

"Mûmakil," he snarled. "Ran through our company. Most got trampled into the ground. Them what got missed by the feet were hit by the tusks." He nodded toward the other two. "Hûruklob pushed me out of the path of one, but it got her."

I nodded, glancing at her. "Brave lady. Is she your mate?"

He gave me a really startled look. Like that was the last question he ever expected from one of us. I suddenly felt like I'd just asked him what his social security number was.

"Sorry, that's none of my business," I said awkwardly. "What's your name?"

"Thorish," he growled, eying me warily. He grimaced as Bar located the source of all his woe and started stitching up his incredibly bad gut wound. I tried to retain a brave face while turning green and trying to discreetly locate my puke bucket. Then as if getting his tummy ripped open and sewn back together was as commonplace as putting on clean underwear after a shower, he engaged me in conversation.

"So it's true, eh?" he asked quietly.

I swallowed what was an unprecedentedly huge wad of acid making a brave attempt at escape and forced myself to say, "What's true?"

"Yer fuckin' an Orc," he clarified.

Scrunching up my nose a bit, because let's face it, a mouthful of your own stomach juices was not appetizing to _anyone_, I held up a cautionary finger. "Not _fucking_, no. He's my mate."

Once again, brick shot to the face. This time, his jaw fell open. Uh... pretty ugly-ass teeth you got in there, my friend. How's about we close that bastard up? You'll scare the children.

"Yer _mate_?" he hissed incredulously.

"Surprise," I shrugged.

"But...," he began, then stopped, like he couldn't think of what should come after the _but_. Probably something intelligent, but he'd already lost his grip on it.

"If it'll make you feel better – or at least a little less freaked out," I said sourly, "he's not from _your_ neighborhood. No offense, but it would take a hell of a lot of booze for me to even _think_ of..." I could feel my face taking on that 'I just ate an unexpected clump of wasabi and it's gone straight to my sinuses' look. "No offense. He's from Isengard. One of Saruman's 'special project' Orcs."

Thorish relaxed and settled back. "Aye. Them half-Men. Ain't the same as Orcs, I hear. Call themselves _Uruk-hai_. I know me some Uruks in Mordor what think that's a mighty insult, them takin' a name like that and bein' all fucked over with Man's blood." He smirked at me. "No offense."

I chuckled a bit. "None taken. So you all surrendered? Why?"

He shrugged. "That Nazgûl lord got killed. The mûmakil started goin' mad, crushin' even _us,_ and their drivers not even _tryin'_ to aim for _tarks_. The Eye's storm died in the sky, and the sun..." He winced, shaking his head. "Some of the Trolls what come from up north was goin' to stone. Worse yet, some Easterlings turned on us. We was tryin' to get our own outta the fuckin' way of this mûmak what was stompin' all over us, and a load uh Easterlings came after us, cuttin' our throats. 'Course the few of us left gave'em what for, then we saw what they was up to. Some big general uh _yers_ was comin' and they wanted his mercy. So they turned on _us_."

"Those _bitches_," I said sympathetically. He gave me a _really_ odd look.

"Aye," he cautiously agreed. "Captain dropped his sword and..." Thorish looked away, a pained expression on his face. "Captain went on his _knees_, beggin' mercy for _us_. Cause'uh them two, and a few others that weren't so bad off. Me, I didn't take this guttin' from one'uh _you_ lot. It be a _Harad_ sword what opened me up."

"Again, _bitches_," I growled. "So do you know _which_ general this was?"

"You load uh _tarks_ all look the same," he said dismissively. "Said he was Fara-somethin'."

My chuckle turned into nasal snorting laughter. "Oh, _that_ explains it," I chortled.

"'Splains _what_?" Thorish demanded with a cross look on his face.

"Faramir," I laughed. "He did say he wanted to coax a few of you into the city. Very interested in Orcs."

"What for?" the Orc snarled, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

I waved away his worries. "Nothing sinister, I promise. Look, these guys don't know _dick_ about your people. Faramir's just the kind of guy to pepper you with questions on that score." At his alarmed look, I snorted. "Trust me, he's respectful. He's already put Ûnran through the ringer." Patting Thorish on the shoulder, I added, "Now it's _your_ turn."


	39. Family Squabbles Already

**Family Squabbles Already, and It Isn't Even Thanksgiving**

Given Ûnran's general discomfort and sort of weird shyness when it came to his surrendering brethren, I broached the subject of Thorish and His Merry Band a bit delicately. For me. Basically, I gently suggested he come with me to the House of Healing the next morning when I report for duty, and you know, just... see how it goes. Meet some new people. Get out of the house more. That sort of thing.

His chief concern was, _are they tied down_?

"Well... yeah," I told him. "Okay, the ugly one is, since he's so much more lively than his friends. The other two are so dead to the world, they're probably _mostly_ dead. Like, rifle their pockets for loose change kind of deadish." Frowning, I asked, "Does it bother you? I mean, he seems reasonable enough; maybe I can talk him into being a good boy and they can untie..."

"No," Ûnran said quickly, shaking his head. "You... just let'im stay tied."

"Is there something wrong?" I asked carefully. I swear, he had that shifty-eyed, guilty-as-hell look about him, which is like catnip for nosey-ass people like me.

Sighing, he growled, "Orcs don't like Isengarders, all right?" He turned away and sat on our little sitting room couch with a thud. More like a whump, actually; it was pretty well broken in by all the traffic through the suite. "Don't trust us. Don't like us. Hate us."

"Really?" I said, admittedly a bit startled. "The Pitmaster didn't seem..."

"Yeah well, the Pitmaster was under our Master's boot," Ûnran snapped. "Didn't have no choice."

Ever so slowly, like a glacier rolling over the land, the clue bus pulled to a stop at my house, and I remembered.

_Huh. Where ya gonna go, eh? I'll tell yuh now, you lot ain't welcome among Orcs. They see yuh comin', they'll split yuh open faster'n a whiteskin'll do it. Yuh better hope Master wins his little war, or there ain't nowhere you can run to._

I found myself a little panicky on his behalf. Quite like a bitch for suggesting he go parading around the House of Healing with his Uruk hanging out. Like the wounded _men_ wouldn't be shitty enough with him, this Thorish guy would likely...

Oh dear. He made a reference to 'half-Men' when I mentioned that Ûnran was from Isengard. He showed the same disdain and disgust one of us would to half-_Orc_.

"Okay," I said, trying to smooth over the apparent social error I'd just committed, badly as usual, "I guess, being a non-Orc, I don't know much about... Why don't they like Isengarders? At least from a human's perspective, you're all Orcs... right?"

Ûnran shook his head. "We ain't. Not to them. Half-Men. They don't trust us; don't know which way we'll go." He grimaced and seemed to sag lower. "They really won't trust me. Cause of which way I went."

"You went to us," I said quietly. Was it _shame_ I was seeing in him? Only yesterday, I was wondering if he felt like he'd betrayed his people by being with me. I thought he only felt a little uncomfortable about the moral ambiguity of his choice. Now I wasn't so sure.

"Aye," he muttered. "I went to Men. Cause'uh you. Didn't have no choice, though, did I?" He glanced up at me and away again almost too quickly for me to see the pain in his eyes. He wasn't quite fast enough. "If I wanted yuh, had to go where you were. That's... that's to Men. So... I ain't an Orc no more. Not to other Orcs. Likely not an Uruk, neither."

I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," I whispered. It was all I had in my repertoire at the moment. He looked so hurt and... defeated, for christ's sake.

He just shrugged, then snorted a _really_ insincere laugh. "But to Men I ain't a Man, see. Ain't an Orc; ain't a Man." Shrugging again, he muttered, "Ain't nothin', I suppose."

"That's not true," I said, my voice gone hoarse. "You are... you are _Ûnran_. You are an Orc _and_ a Man. Don't you let anyone tell you different." I went to my knees in front of him and looked up into his face. I took a hold of his hands. After about a minute, he reluctantly looked me in the eyes. "You mix an Orc with a Man, and you get _Uruk_, as far I'm concerned. In my opinion," I told him, "you are the best of both." I squeezed his hands, trying to reassure him.

A little smile twitched his mouth, but he didn't say anything.

"Do you want to talk to him?" I asked again, and he shook his head.

"No," Ûnran said quietly. "Don't wanna hear what he has to say. Wanna believe what you just said, and I don't want nobody tellin' me different." He swallowed hard, and added, "Don't think I could take it."

I nodded. "Okay. Do you mind if I try to smooth things...?"

"Don't want you talkin' to'im neither," he interrupted. "Don't want'im hurtin' you."

"He's tied down," I reminded him. "He can't get to me, and there's too many people around anyway. I don't think he could if he wanted to."

"I don't mean that. Orcs don't need tuh touch yuh tuh hurt yuh," Ûnran warned. "Don't be alone with'im. Any of'em."

"All right," I agreed.

* * *

><p>As if the discussion with Ûnran hadn't already put me in a guilt-ridden state of mind, the news that Denethor had a personal barbecue party in the Hallows when nobody was looking, cranked that feeling up to eleven. I'd been ensconced in the House of Healing for a couple of days, and when not there, holed up in my gloriously well-appointed guest suite. (Check it out: hot and cold running Uruk lover! Fabulous!)<p>

I completely missed it: Denethor went off the radar shortly after the front gate was bashed in and the horde was greeted with Gondor's Finest and All Their Friends – and after I rudely slammed the door in his face, I might add. He locked himself in that Hallows place and set himself on fire. Denethor's crispy remains were discovered when they took Théoden there to lie in state until he could be returned to his people.

It wasn't anything like the movie _again_. There were no servants around to gently suggest Denethor sleep on it and tackle whatever his issues were in the morning. Pippin wasn't there to go racing after Gandalf because _Faramir_ wasn't there, either. Not that I think Faramir escaping poison and a lighter fluid bath was a bad thing... Thank god Denethor didn't sprint across the courtyard and swan dive onto the battlefield. Though someone might have noticed _that_.

Why couldn't my 'shaping' have saved the dad like it did the son? Why didn't we keep going with our plan, find out what was flipping the old bastard out, and put a stop to it before _this_ happened? He may have embarrassed and humiliated me in front of god and everyone, but he was still Boromir and Faramir's _dad_.

There's no time for those boys to grieve, either. The wheels are turning, the engine is in motion. Not long after the news was delivered, we learned that the generals were putting plans together for their countermarch against Sauron the Dipwad. I probably don't need to point out that when volunteers were being lined up for the march, I quietly slipped out of the room.

To say I had my own issues to contend with would be an understatement. Feeling sort of downtrodden and bereft, I dragged myself to the House of Healing to see if there was anything I could do. The big stir in the House was over Strider, as it turned out, rather than the Orcs. For that I was pretty relieved; awesome diversionary tactics, big guy.

Okay, to be more accurate, it was Strider treating Éowyn for Black Breath or whatever the hell it was, and dragging Merry back from the depths as well. And you know, I didn't see hide nor hair of him at either bedside because I didn't make it that far before Salad and/or Bar (I have no idea which one) accosted me in the hall and sent me after some buckets of hot water.

After the breeze-by, I did an about-face and headed for the utility room. Naturally, there's no such thing as microwaves around here, but they at least have rudimentary indoor plumbing. One of the lackeys in the House spends all his days pumping water and heating it up. It's hotter than a sauna in that room, but at least I didn't have to wait interminably for him to stoke a damn fire; I got issued a couple of sloshing buckets of steaming water, and got the hell out of there.

Once I staggered back to the Orc-wing of the House, I found out why the urgency for water: some old woman was haranguing Salad and Bar with wind'em-up-and-go gusto at the foot of Thorish's bed. The Orc saw me enter and gave me one of those pleading 'dear god, just kill me now' looks.

"...sure I've no idea what crossed your mind when they were brought, but their _filthy stench_ is spreading about the floor!" the woman shrieked. Okay, not really a crebain-from-Dunland-like shriek, but definitely high-pitched and cover-your-ears-she's-gonna-blow kind of volume. "Back in my day, we saw to it the sick were prevented from getting _sicker_ by keeping noisome odors from taking a foothold, and yet you have allowed these creatures not only a berth in _my House of Healing_, but left them bearing the full grime of the battlefield, and their own goodly amount of filth I shouldn't wonder..."

"Madame Ioreth," Salad interjected hastily when she took a breath, "we've but followed Lord Faramir's orders! He begged us to tend them, and so we have. There has been no time to..."

"No time! They have been within these walls near half a day!" the apparent Ioreth snapped.

"But this one... his belly wound...," Bar said, attempting a flanking maneuver, only to be shot down like a dog getting a newspaper to the snout.

"A simple task even Thenidvil could manage with her eyes closed!" She gestured behind her, and only _then_ did I notice the younger lady in her wake, arms crossed and a stern look on her face. I couldn't help it; I got the Dr. Evil and Mini Me vibe, looking at those two. "Alas, I have charges of greater importance to attend, or I would see to this grievous circumstance myself. Thenidvil, bathe these wretches so their foulness does not worsen the already weakened constitutions of the Men-folk."

You know when you're smugly standing around, watching someone else's ass get the chewing of its life, enjoying every moment of not being the target for once, then all of a sudden the rabid dog turns on you? I've only seen it in movies, but this Thenidvil person did it right in front of me. I almost let myself laugh, except laughter generally attracts unwanted attention and requests for assistance. She was all nods and 'give him what for' and 'yeah, you're in trouble now, sucker'... until Ioreth dumped the Orc washing job in her lap. She froze, and this comical look of 'whuh?' hit her face like a truck. She blinked several times, her jaw bounced a bit as she tried to speak... It was hilarious. _Then _when she finally got a word out, I almost peed my pants.

"Whuh... what... what have _I_ done to displease you?" she cried.

"Nothing, dear," Ioreth said a little brusquely, patting Thenidvil's arm. "I trust you to do a proper job. _These_ ninnies would undoubtedly leave bits unwashed out of negligence." Turning on me, which made me cringe, she looked me up and down sort of... WTF-y, if that makes any sense, and said, "Ah, I see the... the... Miss Walker has brought water. See to it, if you please. I am sure, given her... what-have-you, Miss Walker would be more than suitable to assist you."

Well, so much for keeping a low profile.

"In my day, we'd not be giving houseroom to such creatures, but I suppose the times are changing," Ioreth grumbled on her way out of the room. "To think I dandled that boy on my knee when he was just a little scrap of a thing, only to see him grow to manhood and invite _Orcs_ for tea..."

I think we all shared a collective whooshing sigh of relief when she left the area. Even Thorish slumped against his pillows and closed his eyes, finally releasing tensions in his shoulders and sagging visibly.

"My _mate_ don't go on so much," he muttered under his breath. Silence reigned after that statement, and I felt like someone ought to do a dance, sing a song, tell a story, _something_. Hell, pull a rabbit out of a hat or a coin out of an ear. Anything.

"Um... So...," I ventured, clapping my hands and eying the three humans and three Orcs... two of the latter being utterly out of the picture at the moment. "Thorish, you know Salad and Bar, I trust," I said, gesturing at the two men.

Rolling his eyes, Salad said with annoyance, "I am Saehul, and this is Barathil." He bowed to the newcomer, ignoring the Orcs entirely.

"Whatever," I replied dismissively. "I gather you're Then-... Thin-... Thingy-... something." For some reason, what's-her-name gave me the stink-eye with both barrels. Whatever. "Welcome to the circus. The... handsome devil with a controlling interest in Jared is Thorish, and this striking young lady with the fetching sheet dress is... uh... Hûruklob, I think? Thorish's mate?" I swear, I was giving him the raised eyebrows to verify I had the name right, but he glowered at me for a different reason.

"She... she ain't my mate," he growled.

"Excuse me?" I said, startled. The way he came off the bed earlier... well shit, I _assumed_...

"She's... uh..." He kept shifting his gaze around, unwilling to look us in the eye, maybe a little nervous that this was a piece of information we'd likely use against him. I watched the play of emotions on his face, for which I should demand hazard pay. Eventually he must have concluded that we already had him by the balls, so one more leveraging point wouldn't make much difference, because he said really quickly and quietly, "She's my whelp."

"Oooooohh," I said, once more hopping aboard that rarely-seen clue bus. "Well, this little lady saved her daddy's life. You must be really proud of her."

Again, he looked at me like I'd just made the most unbelievably out-of-left-field statement he'd ever heard. Still, he kind of puffed a bit and a slight smile twitched one corner of his mouth. "Taught'er all I know."

"It paid off," I said, and couldn't help patting his knee. Another WTF look fired in my direction. What, nobody shows an ounce of courtesy to these guys? Sighing, I gestured to the one with the bashed skull, all bandaged up and looking like Claude Rains. "Do you know him?"

"Bûzog," Thorish supplied, then chuckled a little. "Looks like one now, don't he?"

"I confess, I haven't learned your language," I told him. "Does his name mean 'caved in head' or something?"

The Orc smirked. "Ain't surprised that _baalak's_ not teachin' yuh Orc tongue. Too busy showin' yuh Orc dick."

Giving him a withering look, I snapped, "Okay, there's a time and a place for everything, and thrown out there in front of the newbie isn't it." I glanced at the horrified Thingyville or whatever her name was, hand over her mouth and arm around her stomach in the universal 'if I don't hold on tight, there will be breakfast, lunch, and likely elevensies all over you' gesture.

"Do he even look like an Orc, eh?" Thorish pressed on, obviously far too delighted by the greenish healer, paler-than-normal men, and thoroughly annoyed me to take a break. "Where it counts, that is. Here, take these ropes off'n I'll show yuh. Let yuh compare."

"Do you want this bucket of water dumped on your head?" I threatened. "It's really damn hot. Or maybe cold water would work better. Which do you prefer?"

Thorish snickered. "You help that little _tark_ with the washin', and you let me know whatcha think'uh my prick. Maybe you like what you see, eh?"

"I'm going to be sick," Thingy whispered, and rushed out of the alcove. Chicken.

"Ice cold it is," I concluded. Turning to Salad, I intruded on his offended horror and said, "If you'll excuse me, I have to see if there are any buckets collecting snowmelt outside. I'll just be a sec."

Feeling no remorse whatsoever for leaving Mister Potty Mouth with my two supervisors, I slipped outside for a breath of air. Come to think of it, yeah, those three had a bit of a funk to them. I could definitely see where Ioreth was coming from.

The moment of peace gave me some time to think, and I found myself wondering where Faramir was. The whole crispy dad business made me review what I knew about this stage of the story as well. If we were in PJ's little world, Denethor would be dead (check), Boromir would be dead (whoops), and Faramir would be in the House of Healing recovering from poison and child abuse (oh damn). The last one wasn't quite happening according to plan, but then healthy and not in flames were preferable conditions for most people, so he probably wouldn't issue a demerit for _that_ meddling in his affairs. Honestly, what was he missing by not being laid up while the rest of the gang goes prancing off to Mordor, huh? A bit of rest, the occasional walk in the garden with Éowyn, fresh air, something other than frickin' _lembas_ to eat?

Oh. Fuck. Quite suddenly, I realized that a potentially massive fuck-up was about to happen. If Faramir wasn't left out of the march, if he wasn't confined in the House of Healing, he'd never meet Éowyn, and they'd never fall in love. And it would be entirely _my fault_.

I was back inside the House before I knew I was on the move. Thingy was bravely ordering Salad and Bar about in the supplies-fetching operation, while keeping her eyes closed and blushing big-time. Thorish's bits weren't even out for inspection yet, but she was making damn sure she didn't see them in case they might sneak a peek at her.

When I touched her arm to get her attention, she nearly went through the roof.

"What do you want?" she kind of squeaked, looking extremely nervous and rather put-upon.

"I was wondering," I said slowly and calmly, "if you could tell me where Éowyn is. I saw her brought in; is she doing all right?"

"Y-yes, she is well," Thingy snapped impatiently. "The Ranger who claims he is King has laid hands on, and she has risen from the darkness. She rests elsewhere; _far_ from creatures like _this_ one!" she added, glaring pointedly at the snickering Thorish.

"I'll get that ice water," I warned him. Turning back to her, I said, "Look, I have to find Faramir. Do you know where he is?"

"Am I a member of the guard?" she cried indignantly. "I am not privvy to the Steward's whereabouts. He could be anywhere. All I can say is that he yet lives; there have been no words saying otherwise."

"Last I saw'im," Thorish cut in helpfully, and not a little sarcastically, "he was down at the bottom, seein' to us prisoners." Then he leered at Thingy. "Been 'round longer'n a whelp like him. Could show yuh some tricks. Make yer toes curl."

Eyes big as saucers. Man, I felt really sorry for Thingy. I swear, if she didn't let him get to her, he wouldn't be having so much fun teasing her.

"What's your mate's name?" I snapped. The Orc started, and looked at me a little oddly. Okay, he could have been confused or pissed; it's hard to tell with a mug like his.

"Uh... Sharog," he muttered.

"And what would Sharog say if she knew you were propositioning this poor woman?" I challenged. "Offering it up, as it were? Angling for a sideline thing? Soldier on campaign, far from home, maybe hoping for a little naughty nurse action?" I waggled my eyebrows suggestively and jerked my head toward the increasingly horrified Thingy a few times. I swear, she looked ready to faint.

Thorish's brow furrowed as he parsed my accusation, then a look of sheer disgust contorted his already-fugly face. Oh good lord, where's my bucket? "I don't wanna fuck no _tark_!" he bellowed indignantly.

"Then stop talking like you do," I retorted. "Give me the wrong impression, and I might try hooking you up. Don't push me."

* * *

><p>I thought about engaging Pippin in a little conspiratorial mayhem, because if you're going under the radar and beyond the law, you need a Hobbit at your side, but I found out he'd taken up position next to Merry in the House of Healing and couldn't be budged. About when I learned Merry'd been left on the battlefield like a sack of dirty laundry until Pippin wandered out there for a smoke break or whatever, Merry was awake and recovering from his run-in with Éowyn's buddy, the Witch King. No sense in getting all worked up now that all the fuss was over with.<p>

So this operation would have to go on without short assistance. No sidekicks or posse. No words of wisdom or cautious warnings, either.

Descending through the city tier by tier was an education. Even though the forces defending it were better prepared and arrayed well enough to repel the invaders and prevent most of the damage, it was still a wreck that got more wrecked the further down you went. By the time I got to the first tier, I was seriously thinking about wielding a broom and dustpan myself.

Wounded were still being trucked in from the battlefield; the new arrivals in the form of the Rohirrim were seeing to their horses and eventually their men. It was a bit chaotic. Thank goodness for pants, because if I'd gone down there in a skirt, I think they would have sent me packing right away. There were bodies all over the place, mostly of Orcs and Trolls, with men detailed to load them on carts and haul them out. I wondered how many of the Trolls arrived on their feet, since _landing_ on their feet was probably too much to expect.

Eventually, I found a pocket of quiet, relatively speaking, off to one side of the main gateyard, and headed over there. As expected, the area of least traffic, avoided like the plague, was filled with Orcs. Live ones. Pissed off beyond all reason ones. They were milling about in a pen that looked like it was thrown together really fast, and what a surprise, Faramir was standing just outside of it, looking at those angry, pissy, furious, nasty, rude Orcs.

I almost turned tail and ran. Whoever gave the order to surrender obviously didn't gain consensus from the committee before he did it. I had to wonder if the guy was even still alive. Taking one of those deep breaths that's meant to bolster your courage and prepare you to face the worst, but does absolutely nothing, I sidled up to Faramir and looked at the Orcs.

Too close to the fenceline for comfort was a big black-skinned Orc that reminded me so much of the one we saw in Moria (minus Strider's sword through his head) that I was pretty well frozen in my tracks, staring at him. He had red eyes that defined the word 'malevolent.' They weren't the undressing kind; those eyes were the disemboweling kind. The kind that make you want to run all the way up seven tiers and hide under the blankets with your nice yellow-eyed lover.

"Fascinating, aren't they?" Faramir said beside me. I glanced at him and fought hard not to roll my eyes. He looked positively rapturous, like he'd just hit the motherlode of interview subjects. "That one has been staring at me unblinking for several minutes." He nodded toward Mr. Gut-you-where-you-stand. "I wonder if an Orc's eyes simply do not require moistening?"

Really? _That's_ what's going through your mind?

"Um... it's just a wild guess, but... I'm thinking he just wants you to know how pissed he is at you," I suggested as gently as I could.

Faramir's brow furrowed. "Why should he be angry with me? I have ensured he and his fellows are provided with food and water. His injured comrades are being seen to. Perhaps there are generations of hate between our two peoples, but surely when compassion is shown..."

"Um... Faramir honey," I interrupted, "they _lost_. They got their asses handed to them. I'm not a military expert, but even _I_ can see that. I'm sure it's not _personal_."

"Yes, this is true," he conceded. "I would like to speak with one, but I..."

He was interrupted by what sounded like a very large animal drawing in a great whiff of air. Mr. Pissy had moved up closer to us; his nostrils flared as he sniffed... _me_.

Oh for the love of god...

"_Skûm-lab kul zash lat htoluz Uruk_," he growled, looking me up and down. His expression was a weird combination of 'no way,' 'WTF,' and 'ew, gross!'

I had no idea what the hell he said, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out.

"Perhaps he... he smells... Ûnran?" Faramir ventured awkwardly, all blushes and stammering. Nope, a strong background in rocket science was not needed here.

Now _I_ was pissed. "I didn't even _kiss_ him this morning! What the hell?" Rounding on Faramir, I snapped, "Can _you_ smell him?"

He vigorously shook his head. "I haven't an Orc's keen sense of smell," he muttered fearfully, like I was going to pound him if he said 'yeah, you stink like Orc ass; everybody knows it.' I couldn't help thinking that if I had a fist-sized booger hanging out of my nose, he'd deny that as well. Definitely not in the running for an honest, save-you-from-an-embarrassing-moment kind of BFF.

Poor Éowyn.

Forcing myself to focus on the end goal of getting his ass up to the House of Healing, I took a deep breath and tried to set it aside. "Never mind. So... what kind of questions were you wanting to ask, anyway?"

"Well, I thought I might inquire after what drives them," Faramir began, and started really warming to the subject. "Similar to what I asked Ûnran. I gather it is different for Orcs than for Uruk-hai..."

"Uruk-hai?" the Sniffing Bandit growled. His beady red eyes were glaring intently at both of us, but particularly at Faramir.

"Yes!" the hapless boob crowed, moving in closer. "Uruk-hai of Isengard. There is one up on the seventh tier..."

He got as far as turning briefly to point heavenward, but I don't think this guy gave a rat's ass where Faramir might be hiding an Uruk. The Orc flared up like someone lit a very expensive firework in his hind quarters and it just went off.

"_Uruk-hai Isengard-ob!_" he roared. "_Ulu nar kulut Uruk-hai! Ulu kulut pushdug globûrzu, ulu kulut baalak snorku, ulu kulut bagu dushatâr-ob! Nar bugd akashara-hai snorku 'Uruk-hai'!_"

Awkward...

I had no effing idea what he was going on about, but the next moment, Faramir's blank, stunned face received a fist the size of a cantelope going ninety miles an hour. The new Steward staggered back with blood streaming out of his much-flatter nose, I jumped to the side and gracelessly face-planted in the mud, and about half a dozen of Gondor's Finest converged with weapons drawn.

"No, no, do not kill him!" Faramir cried out, waving the guards down while trying to keep about a pint of blood from exiting his nasal cavity. "That was my fault. He is not to blame. Stand down."

There's something about pikes and spears that make a guy want to wave it around like a huge penis. The boys may have stepped back a touch, but they still had the weapons up and pointed at the big Orc. He just stared them down with a defiant 'come and get some' look on his face.

I felt guilty as all hell. Yeah, I wanted him upstairs, but more in the way of paying a friendly visit like when basketball players go to the local children's hospital to pep up the patients, kind of thing. Not _as_ a patient. Wincing, I offered him a kerchief.

Hey, this is Middle Earth. _All_ women have kerchiefs. They're standard issue.

"Um... maybe you should... you know... toddle on up to the House of Healing and get that looked at," I gently suggested. "An ice pack wouldn't be amiss."

"Perhaps you are right," Faramir nodded, holding the kerchief to his nose. It was already soaking through, and my stomach was pitching a fit. "I think... it is... a bit too soon for... conversation."

"Good call," I agreed, patting his shoulder.

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Skûm-lab kul zash lat htoluz Uruk_ = "You smell like you fucked an Orc."

_Uruk-hai Isengard-ob! Ulu nar kulut Uruk-hai! Ulu kulut pushdug globûrzu, ulu kulut baalak snorku, ulu kulut bagu dushatâr-ghaara! Nar bugd akashara-hai snorku 'Uruk-hai'!_ = "Uruk-hai of Isengard. They are not Uruk-hai! They are filthy dung-filth, they are worthless half-breeds, they are shit from a wizard! Don't call those half-men 'Uruk-hai'!"


	40. This is Where the Party Ends

**A/N:** This story has been a long one, and I've grown a lot as an author since it began. Recently, I've had some misgivings about some of the things Tanith has done and said, plus I've had a couple of comments that made me sit back and go, 'huh. Yeah. You're right.' So I have gone back to some earlier chapters and _overhauled_. You'll find minor to significant changes in the following chapters, if you'd like to revisit and see what I've done: 18, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, and 28. If you wouldn't mind, let me know how the rewrites 'feel' (particularly if you're a veteran of this story and remember what they used to say!). Now on with the continuation, which, despite the chapter title, _is_ _not the end_. :)

* * *

><p><strong>This is Where the Party Ends<strong>

Knowing what would likely greet me back in the House of Healing – namely, Thingy looking for a volunteer ball scrubber for the Orc-washing – I unloaded Faramir as quickly as possible. I didn't even know if he was in the same wing as Éowyn; I got him this far, let Fate get off her own ass and do her job for once. Side doors and rear entrances are your friends when you want to avoid unpleasant duties, let me tell you. Maybe I looked ridiculous with all the crouching and peering around corners like Kronk On a Mission, but it saved me from having to see more of Thorish than any woman ought to.

Sorry, Thingy. It's war-time. Every woman for herself.

When I reached for the latch on the door of our quarters, I felt relief. I was pretty sure Salad and Bar wouldn't come after me while they had to contend with Thingy, so I could spend an uninterrupted afternoon with Ûnran. Just chilling out and relaxing. I was actually looking forward to having a friendly chat, maybe even throwing the bones. Then I opened the door.

The first thing I did was panic. The hearthfire had burned out completely, leaving the place dark and cold. I stopped in the doorway and just stared around the room, or what I could see of it. The bedroom door was shut, but I could hear...

I was across the room in a heartbeat, yanking open that door. The bedroom was just as dark, just as cold, and I stopped breathing. I just couldn't draw a breath for a moment. Searching the shadows frantically, I finally found Ûnran.

The bedroom wasn't huge; the bed took up quite a bit of space, leaving only a couple of feet between the frame and one wall. Somehow, Ûnran had wedged himself into that tight spot and curled his limbs around his body, just like he did back in Isengard. And he was crying his eyes out. I thought my heart would break, seeing him like that. He didn't even know I was there.

I didn't know what to do. I hadn't seen him come apart like this in a long time. Is this what he did all day, while I was messing around in the House of Healing?

"Ûnran?" I said timidly.

He gasped a bit, he was so startled. Then he tried to extract himself from his corner, wipe his eyes off, and stand up straight while acting like nothing was amiss. Like I hadn't just seen him looking like an upset-as-fuck little kid.

I really didn't want my head to go there, because I wasn't remotely a professional and didn't know what I was talking about, but the scene I walked in on felt a hell of a lot like only the confiscation of his weapons kept him from lying in a puddle of his own blood, wrists slashed, farewell letter on the nightstand...

Oh fuck.

"Talk to me," I breathed, my own eyes erupting in tears. I grabbed his hands and pulled him over to the bed to sit down. "I told you not to bottle it up. Please, Ûnran. _Please_. Talk to me."

His nonchalant act was pointless to begin with, and collapsed utterly once he realized I wasn't fooled. Lip quivering and eyes shimmering, he whispered, "Don't leave me, Tanith. I... I need you."

It hit me hard. He told me only a couple of weeks ago, but it seemed like years. His biggest fear was being alone. What had I done? I left him trapped in this room, _alone_. Maybe the accommodations were better than what the Orcs downstairs were enjoying, but the fact remained that he was in prison. He couldn't leave, not even to get a breath of fresh air; the atmosphere was probably at its most hostile, this soon after the battle. He didn't even have Pippin coming around, now that Merry was laid up in the House of Healing.

I realized I had to do something. Even if it meant I'd have to leave him for a little while again to do it.

"Come here," I said gently, and pulled him into my arms. He hugged me fiercely and his breath hitched a few times as he tried to master himself. I stroked his hair and rocked him a little, because that's what you're supposed to do when your best friend is hurting, isn't it? "I am so sorry, Ûnran. I shouldn't have left you. It wasn't fair. But I'll tell you what: let me go back to the House of Healing, and talk to Faramir. Maybe he can do something. He's the closest thing to someone in charge now that his dad's dead. Maybe... Let me at least talk to him, okay?"

Taking a shuddering breath, he said haltingly, "What's he gonna do, eh? There ain't no place for me here."

I could tell he clamped down to keep from starting up again. Rubbing his back, I said, "I don't know. Maybe he could... do what his dad did, and make you his... sort of... whatever it was he made Pippin. Um... Guard of the Citadel, I think it was."

"What's that, then?"

"The hell if I know," I huffed tightly. "All I could see was that the Citadel Guards run around behind the Steward wishing they were somewhere else. Oh, and they apparently barge in on their friends a lot. Especially when those friends have a buffet in their room."

His laugh was painfully reluctant, as though dredged up from the bottom of a deep well. "Guess I could do that."

"It would be something," I said encouragingly. "Get you out of this room. Get to know the other Guards. Make some new friends."

"Maybe."

"Are you gonna be okay?" I asked, drawing back to look at his face. "If I leave you for a little while? I want to get Faramir on it right away. I'll talk to him, and then I swear, I'll be right back. We can call Iffy to bring in some food. Just you and me, here. Okay?"

He nodded, but his grip didn't loosen for several minutes. His voice was barely there as he mumbled, "I'm sorry I'm so... so weak."

"You're not weak," I assured him. "You've been through hell. It's hard to come out the other side. Even harder when things are so fucked up when you get there. It'll get better. I _promise_, it'll get better."

* * *

><p>I never ran to the House of Healing so fast in my life. I didn't even care if Salad or Bar waylaid me. Let'em try. Of course, I snuck in through the back just in case. I'm not completely stupid.<p>

Faramir was in the midst of getting his nose set when I found him. He looked up and beamed when he saw me. It was _almost_ funny, seeing him so excited while his eye sockets were turning purple and his nose had a huge bandage on it.

"It is truly ironic," he said, child-like wonder in his voice, "that I should be laid low by an Orc and brought up to this place, only to find the slayer of the Witchking also here. Did you know that Lady Éowyn recovers in this very place?"

Right, and any other time I'd be like, 'oh yeah, you should totally go talk to her.' Not today. I pretty much ignored his statement as I sat down on the bench beside him and said, "Faramir, I need your help. Ûnran's feeling a bit... imprisoned, I guess. Is there any way he can have a little freedom? Pippin got to be a Guard; can you do something like that for Ûnran? You know he won't cause any trouble."

Sobering, Faramir leaned back against the wall. "I do not think such a boon would benefit him." Giving me an apologetic look, he went on, "His people are still thought of as the Enemy. Scant hours ago, Orcs were assaulting our walls. They broke through our gate and laid waste to the lower tiers. A concession of this nature, so soon after, would not be in his best interests, nor would it be in mine."

"Um... I don't think I understand," I frowned.

"I apologize, to you as well as Ûnran," Faramir said, and I could tell he really was sorry. "My brother and I agreed that I should take up the mantle of acting Steward, until such time as... these matters may be formally addressed. As Steward, I must think in larger terms." Turning so he half faced me, he took hold of my hands and began to speak as though he was breaking the bad news that I had cancer. "We remain in a state of war. Aragorn is poised to claim the throne of Gondor. All whose livelihoods have been damaged or destroyed, all who have lost kin and property to folk like Ûnran, will look upon what we do here with a critical eye. We must tread carefully, for those who have suffered will feel insulted if we show too much deference to those who caused their suffering."

"But... Ûnran didn't...," I began, shaking my head.

"I know _he_ is blameless," Faramir interjected. "Of most things, that is." He squeezed my hands and gave me that look every politician in any universe uses when they want you to know just how much they care about your personal situation, but hey, their hands are tied, so tough break, huh? "To my people, here in Minas Tirith, he is but a mystery. A faceless... monster, if you will, who has already been given far more privilege than is deserved. He is housed among the nobility and the honored guests. I am sorry to say that not even being in your company affords him much respect. I and my brother have spoken on his behalf amongst our officers. Gandalf as well has spoken highly of him; his word holds much weight, yet even he is powerless to silence all the whispers. Prince Imrahil withholds his opinion until he meets Ûnran himself, yet this he has seemed unwilling to do."

"Can't you do something?" I pleaded, beginning to lose it. If ever I was in need of huge anime eyes shimmering and quivering with unshed tears, it was now. I couldn't help feeling a healthy amount of 'what the fuck is _this_' as well. Jackson didn't go into the politics of kingship, for crying out loud! As far as I knew, Strider just sort of bamfed into the throne room and that was that. Everyone lived happily ever after because they were just _thrilled_ to get their king after so many generations of Denethors screwing up their good time. Now, _all of a sudden_, there were political concerns?

"Not alone, no," Faramir continued. "He must prove himself a friend, not just to you or my brother, but to the folk of Minas Tirith. Only then may he be afforded even a small measure of tolerance."

"How? What does he need to do?"

The Steward's brow furrowed in thought, and I leaned forward on tenterhooks.

"I have learned a great deal about the nature of Orc-kind by speaking with Ûnran," Faramir said thoughtfully. "I confess, my life has been spent believing them incapable of anything but hatred. Yet in Ûnran I see remorse and regret. Tremendous sorrow, and deep affection." Smiling wanly, he said, "An Orc who loves. I never thought it possible, yet in Ûnran it is plain in his eyes when he looks upon you. And also when he speaks of you."

"You've talked to him a bit," I nodded. Had I left him on his own enough for Faramir to sneak in there and interview him? Evidently.

"Indeed I have," he replied. "I am humbled by how much he cares for you. I never imagined an Orc could care for another, and so I told myself it is because he is part Man. That surely must be where these feelings come from. They could not possibly come from the Orc inside him. And then I met Thorish."

I blinked for a second. I knew he'd been responsible for the Orcish invasion of the sixth tier, but I didn't know he chatted with any of them. Faramir smiled at my surprised look.

"Yes, I have spoken with him as well, if only briefly, and once again, I was embarrassed by my ignorance." Taking a deep breath, he went on, "I was shocked to learn that the female Orc was his daughter. Moreso, that he expressed concern for her condition, and worried about her treatment in our hands. He is fiercely protective of his child, and very proud of her skills in battle. When he spoke of how she used his teachings to save his life, I do believe he might have wept with pride. There are few greater rewards for a parent, I dare say." He shook his head in wonder. "He is like any father. Any _Man_. Yet I see no hint of Men in his making. How can it be, then, that he feels the same things a Man does?

"The answer is simple, of course," Faramir chuckled. "We are not so different, Orcs and Men. Far less than we have believed for countless generations."

I nodded. "I know. I came into this world believing they were evil and monstrous. That they could only hurt others. I was scared to death of ever meeting one."

"And you were dreaming of Ûnran," he pointed out. "Did you still believe this, even as you watched his life unfold?"

Shifting uncomfortably, I muttered, "Actually, yeah. A lot of what I saw was pretty scary. I thought I was going crazy. That it was all coming from _my_ head. I didn't want to believe I was watching someone else's life, because... it was horrible. I felt so... _sorry_ for him."

"Tanith, were it not for you and Ûnran," Faramir said gently, "I never would have looked beyond my ignorance, and learned the truth. I would have continued regarding Orcs as enemies, and worse. Now I see them more clearly, and with open eyes. Yes, some are hostile." He smiled ruefully and delicately touched the bandage over his nose. "But others are willing to lay down their arms."

"I think more will be willing to do that after this war is over," I said. "Assuming everything happens the way we want it to."

"Will the Ring be destroyed?" he asked, his brows arched expectantly.

"If I haven't managed to mess up _everything_, yes," I replied. "That's how history recorded it."

"Ûnran told me how it was when Saruman's grip upon him was released. Do you think these other Orcs will have a similar experience?"

"I have no idea," I shrugged helplessly. "Saruman was... well, let's be honest, he was a micromanager. His fingers were a bit too deep in the pie, so to speak. Sauron? I just don't know. His whispery little voice in Ûnran's head isn't strong; who knows what kind of Yoko Ono-like wailing is going on in Thorish's noggin?" Sighing, I said, "I guess we just keep an eye on them. Make sure they don't... swallow their tongues or something. It's about all we can do."

"It has often been said of Orcs," Faramir mused, "that they were 'bred' by the Dark Lord. I never grasped the true meaning of that. That they were bred for one purpose was well understood. That they also possessed the capacity for far more if given the chance... That was never considered." Leaning forward, he told me seriously, "I want to give them that chance, but they must meet me halfway at least. Ûnran has already made that journey. For you, he would do anything asked of him. I understand this. Perhaps not just for his sake, but for the sake of those we must keep under guard, he must set an example."

"What kind of example?" I asked warily.

"I believe the simplest would be if he gave aid in the efforts to clear away the debris and the bodies on the lower tiers," he suggested. "It would not be a pleasant job, but perhaps it would show the folk in this city that there is more to an Orc than wanton destruction. There is also the willingness to rebuild. Perhaps if he is seen extending a hand, some may feel compelled to take it."

"I think he'd be on board with that," I replied sincerely. "When can he start?"

"There are arrangements I must make," Faramir replied thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "The host marches on the morrow. They have been clearing space just beyond the gates for a staging area."

My eyes widened. It was that time already? How long did it take to get to Mordor? I think the movie implied it was a five minute walk, but I'd long figured out what a collossally huge liar Peter Jackson was, so it could be an hour or a month. "So you're not going?"

"No," he said, shaking his head distractedly. "There is much here that needs to be attended to. Not the least of which is detailing civilians to clear debris. I think the companies left behind will manage the dead, though. I would hate for a widow to find her husband..."

"Faramir," I interrupted, "sorry for the one-track mind, but what about Ûnran?"

Shaking himself, he smiled. "Forgive me. Of course. I cannot have him walking unescorted among the people. Or the men-at-arms, for that matter. I will find trustworthy men to guard him as he goes about his duties, never fear." Smiling encouragingly, he said, "I will send a man to fetch him in the morning, after the host departs and things below aren't quite so... hectic." Eying me curiously, he asked, "Will you accompany the host? Aragorn said you might wish to..."

"No," I replied pointedly. "Not this time." Sighing, I said, "I kind of blew it at Helm's Deep. All those Uruk-hai – Orcs like Ûnran – and I had to leave them there. I have no idea what happened to them. I'm not abandoning this bunch. If there's any way I can... I don't know, help them adjust, I want to do that. I can't do a thing from Mordor. And something tells me one extra frying pan isn't going to make a difference in that battle."

Faramir laughed and nodded. "No, likely not. I am glad you choose to stay. I would value your assistance. Thorish seemed taken with you, and it would help matters with the others if he were to cooperate."

"How do you mean?"

"He speaks the tongue of Orcs, and I do not," he replied. "It was clear that many of those below speak no Westron. Without Thorish's aid..."

"Just... don't use his kid as leverage," I advised as delicately as I could manage. "That seems like something Sauron would do." Giving him a stern look, I added, "Don't pull a Sauron."

"I shan't," Faramir smiled. "I trust you will guard their interests as well as their dignity, should I falter or misstep."

"I'll do my best."

* * *

><p>Ûnran greeted my news with a hodge-podge of emotions. At the same time, he was relieved, nervous, scared completely to death, and eager to get started. I reassured him over and over again that I'd be there. I wasn't about to let him face this alone. At first he seemed relieved, then eventually he started looking a little... not quite so relieved. I chalked it up to opening night jitters and let it go. He seemed more interested in the details anyway.<p>

"He say what I'd be doin'?" he asked as we had a quiet dinner on the floor of the sitting room, a cheery fire blazing in the hearth. Iffy really came through, bringing a bit more meat than we were probably entitled to, and making sure Ûnran's was good and bloody. I wondered if she had a bit of a crush on my boyfriend, but somehow couldn't muster any jealousy about it.

Yeah, go ahead and like him. It won't kill you.

"Well, there are still bodies to clear, I think," I supplied. "When I was down there this morning, it was a mess. Buildings knocked down, huge chunks of rock all over. That sort of thing. Probably from the trolls."

Nodding, Ûnran reached for his goblet of wine. "Aye. They's big. Do a lotta damage when they get goin'."

"And when they land," I agreed. "The third tier got the worst of it when the Orcs started catapulting trolls at us..."

And quite suddenly, I was covered with a fine spray of wine. I delicated dabbed at my face with exaggerated dignity as Ûnran choked violently.

"Lovely vintage," I commented. "A 1922 Merlot, is it? Very robust."

But good god, was it ever nice to see him laugh. He literally fell over backwards and howled when I described the unorthodox siege weaponry they sent screaming over the walls. I even did some speculative imitations that nearly sent him into apoplexy.

It seemed like forever since I saw his dimples, and there they were. If Iffy ever saw those things, she'd fall straight in love with him.

In spite of the moment of frivolity, bedtime was sedate and uneventful. No fiddling around, no shenanigans of any sort. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. One arm was obligingly around me because I was resting my head on his shoulder, my hand on his heart. But he looked worried and thoughtful. I tried to get him to tell me what was on his mind a few times, but he only grunted in response.

I don't think he slept all night.

In the morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed and hurried to the balcony overlooking the front gates miles below. There were _thousands_ of troops down there. The rising sun was starting to glint off their armor, making me blink a lot. Ûnran's expression was another mix of emotions, but I wasn't entirely sure which ones this time. Maybe dread? Worry? I didn't know. I slipped my hand into his and held on tight.

We could actually feel the stone under our feet vibrating a little when the troops moved out. At a snail's pace, I might add. When Faramir said they were _marching_ to Mordor, he wasn't kidding. Maybe hanging out in the lap of luxury with access to bathing facilities and the ability to put my feet up whenever I wanted was a wise choice this time around.

We'd no sooner sat down to breakfast in our sitting room, which Ûnran only picked at, when a guard showed up. Gazing longingly at the perfectly-fried eggs, I wiped my mouth and rose from our little table to let him in. Ûnran stopped pretending to eat and sat rigidly in his chair, staring hard at nothing.

"Hi," I said awkwardly to the tall, dark-haired and bearded man on our doorstep. Dressed in that omnipresent black livery of the Citadel, he was one of those extremely serious-looking military types who also seemed only slightly less than completely pissed at his Steward for saddling him with Orc baby-sitting duties.

"Ma'am," he said with a slight bow and barely masked 'holy shit you're the lady who's fucking this Orc dear god how in the hell can you what the fuck what do I say just act cool maybe she won't notice I'm about to barf' expression on his face. "I am called Beregond son of Baranor. My lord and captain Faramir bade me fetch..." He faltered and seemed to have difficulty speaking for a second. Taking a deep breath, Barry finished, "Is the Orc ready to depart?"

"FYI, his name is Ûnran," I told him pointedly. "And yes, _we_ are ready." I turned at the sound of the chair scraping across the floor, and watched Ûnran grip the table edges for a moment before standing. Then he slowly approached as if this Barry guy held an executioner's axe, not orders to escort him downstairs.

I couldn't have been more completely knocked on my ass by what Ûnran said to me.

"No, you stay here," he said, his brow furrowed. He couldn't look at me, and I couldn't do more than stare stupidly back at him. "Don't... don't come with me."

"What?" I breathed. Didn't we agree I'd go with him? Or was I the only one with that delusion? Dammit, was he up all night planning this?

"Gotta do it alone," he said firmly, and the air just sort of leaked out of my lungs. "Been hidin' behind yuh too long. Gotta stand on my own."

"You don't have to prove anything," I told him. "Not to me."

"Yeah, I do," he replied. Swallowing hard, he glanced over his shoulder at the guard, then back to me. "I want yuh to respect me."

"I _do_ respect you," I insisted.

"No, I want yuh to respect me as... as a mate," he murmured quietly so the guard wouldn't hear. "As a strong Uruk. Orc. Somethin'."

"You already are," I pressed. "Ûnran, don't do this. Not without me."

"Ain't no other way to do it." He backed away without another word, just a determined look. I couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but watch him turn and walk out the door with the guard.

* * *

><p>I fussed around our quarters for at least an hour – rearranging furniture, making and remaking the bed, refolding the clean laundry Iffy neatly folded and put away yesterday – before finally giving up and hauling my ass back to the House of Healing. No matter how many times I looked out the front window, the day wasn't going to end any faster. I didn't want to acknowledge the fact that I wasn't waiting on the day to end so much as for a messenger to come and tell me a mob lynched my lover.<p>

Faramir wasn't there, and even though Éowyn was reportedly up and around, I couldn't bring myself to look her up. Maybe it was selfish, but I was pretty sure talking to her about any subject would either directly or indirectly remind me of her uncle's death, and at that moment, I was so close to the edge, it wouldn't take much to tip me over. So I steeled my nerve and checked in on the Orcs.

As luck would have it, two wonderful things had happened: one, Thorish was recovered enough to be sent back downstairs, and two, Thingy was done with the washing up. Everybody was squeaky clean, or near enough. Unfortunately for her, the boss must have decided she was perfectly suited to take charge of the Orcs. Or she mouthed off one too many times and Ioreth let her have it.

Regardless, Salad and Bar were busily puttering around with their healer things, preparing fresh poultices for the Orcs, and Thingy was bent over the male Orc's head bandage.

"Hey, guys, how's it goin'?" I said as I breezed into their midst. Thingy glanced up and gave me the most hateful look imaginable.

"You were sorely missed yesterday," she hissed.

Giving her a sour look, I snapped, "Well, I had my own problems to contend with, thank you very much."

Dismissing me with a wave, she turned to Salad. "Have you finished yet? I'm nearly ready."

"Almost," he replied. Glopping some more unidentifiable thick paste into a cloth, he slathered it on thickly. Then he handed the gross-looking mess to Thingy.

"Thank you," she grumped and set it aside. In a matter of moments, she'd removed the bandage from the Orc's head entirely.

I think it was revenge for making her face this guy's naughty bits alone. Before I became too nauseous to see straight, I noted that the Orc-whose-name-escaped-me-at-the-moment had taken a pretty nasty blow to the temple. It was like the bone that formed the brow ridge over his eye had been completely caved in. Someone with either an ounce of sympathy or none at all – the jury's still out on that one – had removed the eyeball and just left a hollow gaggy pit behind.

It was all I could do to stay afloat when she packed that socket with the poultice and started wrapping the poor bastard's head again. I had to lean against the wall and heave some deep breaths, let me tell you.

In fact, I couldn't look at him at all, so I totally missed what happened to make Thingy freak out.

"Eru's mercy, restrain him!" she cried, and leaped to her feet. Salad and Bar converged and quite handily blocked my view, so I still didn't know what the hell happened. Craning my neck, I tried to get a peek, but all I could see were those two old men scrambling with ropes or leather thongs or whatever they'd used on Thorish earlier.

As it turned out, the Orc only rolled his head to the side, but Thingy apparently considered it a threatening move and felt obliged to dial 911. By poking my nose in and trying to figure out how a knocked-out Orc could possibly threaten anyone, I managed to be placed perfectly to see the Orc's eye open for the first time.

To begin with, his eye was red. Not just the iris, but the white part. There were some exploded veins in there, putting a huge (relatively speaking) blood stain in the corner closest to his nose. Judging by the slow blinking and the gradual furrowing of the half of his brow not covered by a bandage, the last thing he expected to see when he woke up was Thingy staring back at him.

I don't think she looked kind and welcoming. More like scared shitless and straining to hear someone – anyone – calling her name so she'd have an excuse to bolt out the door. Figuring she was useless, I pulled up another stool and sat where he could see me.

"Are you all right?" I asked kind of lamely. "You're safe. Nobody's going to hurt you. Do you understand?"

He nodded a little, and opened his mouth to speak. His jaw worked up and down, and I could hear short grunts coming out of his mouth, but no words. His one good eye widened, and his breathing started to speed up and hitch like he was entering panic mode.

"What is wrong with him?" Thingy whispered. I shook my head and shrugged helplessly.

"You're the healer, you tell me," I replied.

"Can you speak?" she asked him, her brow furrowing with concern, which surprised me. Ten seconds ago, she was ready to ditch and run.

He nodded, and tried to reply once more, but failed miserably. He was practically _choking_ to get some word out. His eye was darting around wildly, and I figured it was starting to sink in where he must be. Reaching out, I touched his arm to get his attention; he jerked with surprise and his eye swivelled toward me.

Good god, he was frickin' scared out of his mind.

"Calm down," I advised as gently as I could. "You're inside the city. Minas Tirith. Do you remember anything?"

He frowned and shook his head. His breathing was abnormally fast, even for an Orc, and I had no doubt his heart rate was elevated well beyond what was safe as well. "Okay. What happened was that your captain or commander – someone important like that – surrendered. You and Hûruklob and Thorish – do you remember them? Good – were taken up here to be treated. Evidently, someone drove a mûmak into your ranks and you guys took a bit of a pounding." Pointing to the bed next to him, which was actually on his blind side, I added, "Hûruklob is right here. She's going to be fine. Thorish was here for awhile, but now that he's doing better, he's been taken downstairs where the other Orcs are." The Orc turned his head to see her, but I think the fact that she was immobile and unaware wasn't very encouraging.

Again, his jaw worked desperately and pointlessly to get a word out, but nothing coherent came. Unlike Thorish, who put that Orc from _Return of the King_ with the elephantitis issues to shame, at least this guy wasn't nearly as repulsive to look at. And Thingy and I were doing a lot of looking, I assure you. Maybe it was because he was a lot younger than that old bastard Thorish, his face not so riddled with scars and bling, but I swear I could just about read his mind from the expressions alone.

_I don't know where I am. I don't remember coming here. I don't remember surrendering. I'm afraid and I don't know what's going on. And I can't talk. I can't say a word. Help me. Please help me._

Let's be honest: he looked like a little lost kid at the mall. In a foreign country. Looking for someone to help him, point him in the right direction. Or at least someone who _looked_ like him.

"I have seen this before," Bar said thoughtfully. "Injuries to the head can sometimes cause strange behaviors." Nodding sagely and pointing to the Orc, he added, "This one appears to have lost the ability to form words."

Brilliant observation, Watson. And so delicately revealed. The Orc stepped up his efforts to say at least _something_, and practically gagged himself in the attempt. Being an Orc, he had very dark skin. Almost black. So when he strained himself to the breaking point, he didn't turn red so much as very dark purple.

As if he'd been running down random words in his head and finally hit on one he could say, he blurted out, "_Dursh_!" It sounded like a curse word. Whatever it meant, it was apparently unsatisfactory in the exreme, because he shook his head and grimaced, squeezing his eye shut.

The anxiety and fear finally got to him, though. Turning his head to somewhat bury his good eye in the pillow, he began to weep. Maybe he was an adult Orc, but he cried like that little lost kid, sounding frustrated, furious, and completely helpless.

It was probably a full minute of what-the-fuck before Thingy rallied in a completely unexpected way.

"There now. Bûzog, is it?" she said soothingly, and all but shoved me aside. I had to scoot out of the way, _and_ move my stool. She soaked a cloth in a nearby bucket of cold water and wrung it out. Then she began to smooth it over his face. "Calm yourself. Everything will be all right. You are not here so we may torment you. We have treated your injuries, and will continue to do so. Ease your worries. Draw a breath – that's it – now let it out slowly. And another. There we are."

That one red eye of his locked onto Thingy like she was the angel of mercy come to save him. I busied myself taking her calm orders: fetch some broth, refill the bucket with fresh water, gather more cloths, inform Ioreth that one of the Orcs had woken up.

I probably don't need to point out that Ioreth wasn't impressed with this news.

"Good," she snapped distractedly as she ground up some weeds in a mortar. "The sooner they waken and leave this place, the better."

"I don't think he'll be going anywhere for a while," I said uncertainly. "He can't talk."

"Hmph," Ioreth snorted. "It is not his mouth that will carry him down six tiers to his own folk."

"No, I mean, he _could_, before he was hurt, but now..." She finally stopped her incessant grinding and looked at me with surprise. "You know, I'm no expert, but if he got hit hard enough to lose the power of speech, don't you think...?"

I let the statement hang while she frowned and thought about it.

"I suppose... there might be other... Perhaps he should be watched." I could tell the great Orc vs. Man debate was raging in her head. If he was a Man, she'd be all over it, clucking like a mother hen (rather like Thingy, come to think of it). Because he was an Orc, she had to take a hard look at her standard reaction protocol.

Did Bûzog count? Did he rate the same kind of give-a-shit as a Man? Regardless that Faramir seemed to think he did?

"I trust Thenidvil is attending to matters well enough?" she asked hopefully. I felt like saying, 'No, she ran at the first sign of trouble. I think you'll have to take over.' But I restrained myself. Something in the back of mind told me that, of the two healers, Bûzog would be way better off with Thingy.

* * *

><p>Not gonna lie: when I returned to my quarters that evening (at warp speed, I might add), I was relieved to find the place Orc-less. I just didn't want Ûnran to come home to an empty apartment, not on his first day of work. In the hour or so before he returned, I wore a groove in the floorboards from all the pacing and wringing my hands. Sometimes I cried, I was so anxious.<p>

What if things got out of hand? He only had the one guard, Barry or something. I don't care how big the guy was, he'd probably still get mowed down by Hildur. Multiply Erkenbrand's wife by the general population of a capital city and he wouldn't stand a chance. And by extension, neither would Ûnran.

I must have imagined about seventy-five different gruesome deaths before the sound of footsteps outside shut down the worry machine and launched me at the door. I whipped it open so fast, Ûnran's hand was still in mid-air, reaching for the latch. I would have been wrapped around him with every limb, I was so relieved to see him alive, if I hadn't looked at his face first.

There was a shallow cut over his eye and a bruise darkening his cheek. His expression was tight and strained, like if I didn't get the fuck out of his path, I'd get trampled. I hastily stepped aside, and he blew right past me. His long strides took him straight back to the bedroom. It shook the rafters when he slammed the door behind him.

At a loss, I looked at Barry with one of those 'what the hell was that about' expressions on my face. Unlike when he dropped by that morning to see if the disgusting Orc could come out to play, he looked really contrite. There was a little twitch in the corner of one eye. Taking a deep breath, I said evenly, "What happened?"

He couldn't answer for a minute, which cranked up the knob on my freak-o-meter. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if there was a fight when he finally replied uncomfortably, "I believe... Ûnran should tell you."

That's it? "No, _you_ tell me. What the hell happened?" My voice was starting to rise in pitch; that alone should have warned him that immediate compliance would save him a world of hurt.

"Ma'am," Barry said firmly, "he will want to speak of this in private, I've no doubt. He showed... admirable restraint." A half smile crossed his face. "I have known Men who would have struck back for less. If you will excuse me, I must return to my family – my wife and my son – and urge them not to despise Orcs... simply because they are Orcs."

My breath huffed several times, but I couldn't seem to say anything. Barry gave me a short, polite bow and left, quietly closing the door behind him. Too numb to even think, I turned around and headed for the bedroom. There was no sound coming from inside, which somehow seemed even worse than when I found him yesterday. Hesitating, and maybe wanting to put it off a little, I timidly knocked on the door.

"Ûnran?" I called quietly. "Can I come in?"

After what seemed like a full minute because I was starting to fidget and bite my lip, he finally answered, "Yeah."

The bedroom was dark again; the fire from the sitting room was about the only light in the whole suite. I immediately looked toward that corner, but he wasn't there. He was standing next to the window, staring out at the gloomy sky over Mordor. It didn't seem nearly as far away as I would've liked.

I got the sense from his rigid posture and grim silence – not to mention the deep frown – that if I started prying, he'd clam up. So I stood next to him and looked where he was looking. Eventually, he started to speak. I almost wished he hadn't.

"Shoulda seen yuh to the trees, and gone back," he muttered. "Shoulda never thought... I could be..." He faltered, and bowed his head. I could hear him swallowing repeatedly as he tried not to lose it. I reached over and put my hand on his. "Met Thorish, gettin' taken down to that holdin' pen. Told me... told me I was a traitor. Called me... yer _snaga_."

Now was probably not the time to ask for translations. I maneuvered my hand into his and laced fingers with him. His grip was strong, though his hand shook.

"People... cursed me," he went on. "Threw rocks. Spat on me. Said my head... oughta be on a... a pike over the gate. Told me to... to take my whore back to Mordor where I belong. Cause I ain't wanted here." Though he looked like he was on the verge of emotional collapse, he forced himself to smile. It made him look ghoulish rather than amused. "Jokes on them, eh? Ain't wanted there, neither."

"Ûnran," I breathed. My heart hurt, listening to what he had to endure. I should've gone with him. Unleashed the Brat and sent those people packing. I should never have made him face that alone.

"Somebody... called for my ears," he hissed, clenching his teeth. "Another... wanted my... my... fingers. For knucklebones."

I didn't know what else to do but apologize. "I'm so sorry," I said thickly as my eyes filled up. "This is all my fault. We should've just... gone somewhere... anywhere but here."

"Ain't yer fault," Ûnran said quietly. "Yer... a good woman. Yuh thought... maybe... I was worth savin'." His lip quivered a bit, and that ghastly smile returned. "Fooled yuh good, didn't I?"

"You _are_ worth saving," I insisted. "Ûnran, listen to me. You don't have to go back. Just stay up here, and I'll tell Salad and Bar to..."

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head again. "No. Beregond's comin' again in the mornin'. I'm going back down. I gotta do this."

"No you don't," I told him firmly. I took hold of his arms and turned him to face me. "I mean it. You don't have to prove _anything_ to me. I'm done shaping shit for these people." Looking in his pain-filled eyes, I almost fell apart. "I did this to you," I whispered. "And I'm going to fix it. We'll leave. Find some place..."

"Tanith," he said softly, "shut up. There ain't no place for me, unless I keep goin' down there. Keep... showin' I ain't a... beast. Or a coward. It ain't just for me: them Orcs down there, and the ones back at Helm's Deep. They don't know it, but... if I fail, so do they. If I can't shape things, then there ain't no hope for none of'em. Cause if these whiteskins can put up with you and me..." He laughed a little. "Then maybe they won't mind the rest of'em neither."

Slipping my hands into his, I searched his eyes. He seemed to have gotten a grip on himself, though he was still profoundly upset. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I want yuh to be proud of me." Now his lip quivered again, and his voice was unsteady as he said, "I wanna be worthy of yuh."

I let go of his hands and wrapped my arms around his neck. "You _are_ worthy, Ûnran," I whispered in his ear. "Whether you believe it or not."

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_dursh_ = bridge

_snaga_ = slave


	41. Friends in Low Places

**A/N:** Something special for you at the end, auntiemaim. ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Friends in Low Places<strong>

I spent the next couple of days nurturing the world's biggest guilt trip, because I had time to think. In retrospect, it was easy to ignore or overlook the consequences of trying to drag an Orc into 'civilized' society. All I could see was Ûnran, and the kind of person he was. Or more accurately, what I believed he was. Maybe I was one of those people who saw a victim and decided that, come hell or high water, social contracts and natural laws be damned, I was going to fix him. Take him out of his situation and let the chips fall where they may.

Well, they were falling pretty hard, right on his head. He was like a fish out of water, but none of the other fish wanted him back in the pond.

Everyone who had our back, who held any position of authority and could talk the civilians of Minas Tirith out of organizing a lynch mob, was off to Mordor to kick Orc ass. Except Faramir. While he was preferable to his nutjob dad, and the military dudes thought the sun rose and set from his ass, he couldn't be everywhere at once. He had 'issues' to contend with that PJ never addressed. On the other hand, he may not have mentioned it because he had no reason to, until I showed up to ruin the whole party.

Among those issues, as dutifully reported by Pippin's replacement, Iffy, was a load of grumbling about food stores and who was entitled to them. Maybe Gondor's Favorite Sons had prepped the locals for a siege and gathered in enough food for a lengthy one, but the fields these folks used to grow the food on were trashed for miles around the city. Faramir was trying to stave off a famine while we waited for the farmers to feel safe enough to venture back to their farms and get back to work.

The general consensus seemed to be that the Orcs should be satisfied with their own dead while the good people of Minas Tirith feasted on t-bone steaks and fresh greens. Meat from an animal and bread too soft to be used as a doorstop were 'too good' for the likes of them. It's not like they could tell the difference between Orc-flesh and cow, after all.

Thankfully, Iffy whispered this information to me when Ûnran wasn't around. I don't think he could take it, after all he endured every day.

The taunting continued. Rocks, rotten food, and insults were thrown at him from sun up to sun down. Thank god Barry wasn't the only one assigned to him; in fact, after the first day, he got two more. Now he had a total of six guards going around with him from one worksite to another. They weren't there to pitch in and help, either. All they did was maintain a protective perimeter around Ûnran, and keep people from getting too close.

There wasn't much they could do about the target practice, though, except admonish and scold. When it was a choice between their own people and an Orc, guess who won?

After two days on the third tier, Ûnran moved down to the second. I was somewhat encouraged when he told me some of the other workers in his group were becoming 'less hateful.' By that he meant that they'd started referring to him as 'Orc,' not 'it' or 'filth.' Maybe in a month or so, they might use his name.

I tried to think of all the things I could have done, between Fangorn Forest and here, to make things easier on him, to kind of ease his transition into The World of Men. What I came up with was that everything that could've been done _had_ been done. He saw this world through my eyes. He learned the rules. He understood how things were done. Hell, he must have internalized a lot more than even I gave him credit for, if he knew that assholes in Minas Tirith weren't dealt with in the same way they were in Isengard.

No, it wasn't Ûnran who was having trouble adjusting. It was Men. Unlike me, they hadn't seen an Orc's life outside the context of war, and I was _god damned_ if I would be the one to tell them about it. At least about Ûnran's experiences in particular, anyway. He was just beginning to put the past behind him, probably because the present was so chock full of god-awful, there wasn't room for Isengard anymore.

He'd said he should have gone back and died with the other Uruk-hai. Because of _me_, he didn't, and now he was paying for that decision. I couldn't help thinking it was all my fault.

Sitting alone in our rooms, waiting for him to return and unload a day's worth of fury and indignation into our furnishings, made me start wondering if, given the chance to leave Middle Earth, would I take it? If I could find some portal or a pair of ruby slippers or a TARDIS, and _go home_... Leave all this behind, including Ûnran... Would I take it?

Whatever insane force brought me here obviously didn't do it so I could change history. If they had, I completely fucked up the job. So couldn't I just get fired? Sent home with a box full of my desk stuff and a severance package?

I was torn, though, on which way to go _if_ I had the choice. My family – obnoxious brother, slutty sister, professor dad, nervous mom – probably wondered where I was. Unless this was Narnia, and I would fall out of the wardrobe at the exact moment I fell in, I just disappeared off the face of the earth, from their perspective. Had they called the police? Was there a nationwide search? Did my sister stop taking her clothes off long enough to care?

But how could I leave Ûnran? How could I turn my back on him after I'd sworn to keep him safe? How could I wrench another chunk out of my heart nearly as big as the one losing my family left behind?

And when had I become such a drama queen?

Sighing, I poked at the fire in the hearth. It had been four days since the army marched, and Ûnran was supposed to be working with the crew on the first tier. I dreaded his return; he'd probably be hauling loads within earshot of the Orc prisoners, and who knew what nasty crap _they'd_ fling his way?

I still killed off my boring days in the House of Healing, though I wasn't much use. About all I could do was run around like Salad and Bar on 'fetch it' quests for Thingy. Hûruklob was still out cold, but Bûzog was able to sit up for short periods. He got dizzy spells and had to lie down again frequently. At first, he was kind of belligerent and snarled at Thingy every time she came near him with food or to change his bandage, but after a couple of rounds of her bedside manner, he shut the hell up. Or shut up _more_, anyway.

Let's be honest, she was kind of bossy. Given the mighty wind that was Ioreth, I wasn't really surprised. Bûzog learned fast that winding her up was an invitation to receiving an earful that he couldn't interrupt. Nor could he sass her effectively, although the other day he found another word he was able to say. When she was fussing over him, he pointed to himself and roared, '_mau!_' I think he said '_grass_' at one point today. Or maybe '_graz_'; it was hard to tell.

Regardless, I gratefully let Thingy take over, particularly because it seemed that whenever I showed up, it was bandage-replacement-time. I was more concerned about the boys downstairs in any case, and urged my new partner-in-crime to focus her phone tree on what was going on down there.

Iffy kept me informed of their condition, because she had it from the stable boys on the sixth, who rubbed elbows with the chimney sweeps on the fifth, who were friendly with the ones tidying up the bedrooms on the fourth, who... Jesus, the girl had her connections, put it that way.

According to her sources, the Orcs were moved into more 'permanent housing' than the pen I'd seen them in before. They were confined to a fenced courtyard with awnings erected to keep the sun off them. Though they were being fed and watered, it was in the form of troughs filled awkwardly through the fence. Nobody wanted to go in there without an armed escort, least of all the pissed stable hands commandeered for the duty.

Oddly enough, on this day, she revealed something really surprising that I hadn't even registered whenever she brought me an assload of gossip from the lower tiers.

"I've heard there was a request for the one called Thorish to meet with my Lord Steward," she was saying as we folded laundry. Trust me, it took awhile for her to realize that I _needed_ to fold laundry. Really badly. It was either fold or directly deal with the worry about what was happening to Ûnran. And maybe cry a lot. So dammit, _let me fold laundry_.

"Really? I was wondering when he'd get to it," I replied. "What with all the city-running stuff, he probably hasn't had a chance for a good, long chat."

"Indeed," Iffy nodded. "I have it from the charwoman on the second tier that there have been... difficulties concerning the Orcs, and undoubtedly my Lord wishes to address them as swiftly as possible."

Blinking stupidly, I frowned, "What, uh... what sort of 'difficulties'?"

_Besides the obvious 'they're Orcs' one, that is_.

Quiet, Brat.

"Well, you see... I suppose this is my doing," she hedged. Then she blushed. What the...? "I confess, I have been compelled to reassure my friends and acquaintances that, though I wait on an Orc and his..." She looked questioningly at me. "Wife?"

Shrugging, I nodded. "That'll do in a pinch."

"Wife, then," she said, looking relieved to have a nicer name to apply than 'whore' or 'tramp,' which were more likely being used below stairs. "Though I wait on an Orc and his wife, I am in no danger. Master Ûnran is quite the gentleman, in fact." Giggling shyly, she added, "My friends scoffed at first, but 'tis true."

I had to smile, seeing the girlie flutters. Yeah, she's crushin' on mah boyfriend. Er... husband. Not gonna lie, it was way easier calling myself his mate. That was a different enough word that it sort of made it... okay to be with him. Using the words 'husband and wife' in the context of our relationship put a whole different spin on it. But I only reeled for a second.

Yeah. He's my husband. Whether this world recognizes it or not. And yes, he _is_ a gentleman.

"I think if your friends met him, they'd probably agree with you," I smiled.

"Some do already," Iffy assured me. "And of course, Bergil speaks for him as well."

"Um, who?"

"Bergil, son of Beregond," she said, as if I should already know. "His father escorts Ûnran each day. Has he never spoken of his son?"

"Well... he might've mentioned...," I hedged uncomfortably. Honestly, whenever Ûnran came home, I was more concerned about preventing him from tearing the room apart piece by piece than with engaging the guards in friendly banter. My conversations with them were usually brief and not about their own families so much as how the day went in general terms.

"Beregond has spoken highly of Ûnran's agreeable nature and admirable courage on several occasions," she went on, and I think my eyes were huge with shocked disbelief. He said things like that to me; I didn't know he told anyone else. "Tis true!" Iffy insisted. "Young Master Bergil, as you may know, is quite friendly with Master Peregrin as well, and he..."

"Wait, he's friends with Pippin?" I interrupted. "_My_ Pippin? Short guy with a biscuit fetish? _That_ Pippin?"

Laughing, she nodded. "Most assuredly. Until you and Ûnran arrived, he spent a great deal of time with Master Peregrin, showing him around the city." Her brow pinched a bit. "To his shame, he stopped coming round when it seemed Master Peregrin favored the company of an Orc. Quite dismayed, he was."

I sagged a little. Sometimes, it isn't you but the company you keep, isn't it?

"He is not so now," Iffy went on. "Not since his father discovered Ûnran's quality, and Bergil mastered his fear enough to face Ûnran himself." Blushing slightly, she confessed in a subdued tone, "Some whisper that it was shame of a different sort that moved him toward the confrontation."

"What sort of shame?" I whispered. Her grin was positively impish.

"It might have been said that he possessed less courage than a house maid on the matter."

No shit, I had to work at it not to burst out laughing. "Not said by _you_, I'll bet," I teased.

"Of course not," she replied, completely guiltless about her bald-faced lie. "Because of his and my testimonies, as well as the evidence of their own eyes, there are some... _a few_, that is, who do not think him a beastly creature. Perhaps they do not openly say so, but... well... I'm afraid there are quite a few more who think otherwise."

"I didn't expect there to be a fan club for him," I remarked ruefully. "I'm shocked there's even a handful who think he's an all right guy. He thinks the whole place is against him."

Iffy nodded sadly. "It may seem so to him, and rightly so. He simply _cannot_ be allowed to walk unescorted. There is no guarantee of safety for him. Not at this time. Alas, for each step forward he takes, the Orc prisoners seem bent on setting him two steps back."

Leaning forward, I said, "Okay, what's going on? You said something about 'difficulties.' What does that even mean?"

She shifted a little on the divan, making herself comfortable. "One of the stablehands was grabbed when he brought them food," she whispered, as though it was a scandalous secret. I almost flipped a shit.

"What? Why didn't you say something? What happened?"

"Oh, it was nothing serious!" she cried placatingly. "He was aiding the man who delivers their rations, and thought he was perfectly safe to hand something to a large Orc by the fence, rather than chuck it into the trough. The Orc got hold of his arm just like that." She reached out and snapped her fist closed very quickly, and I automatically clutched my throat. "He spoke hateful words to the boy, so I've been told, and another Orc urged him to stand down and release his hold. He did so, of course."

"Was the kid all right?" I breathed.

"Indeed he was," she reassured me. "Frightened out of his wits, of course, but perfectly fine. I hope he tells my Lord Steward what was said. It shan't go well for the one who grabbed him if he doesn't." She chewed her lip nervously. "I am afraid that, among our elders, there is little acknowledgement of truth no matter how insistent we are about it."

It was like Pippin and the 'strange projectiles' conversation all over again. "Hello? Details, dammit!" I prompted impatiently.

"Well, I have it on the most _reliable_ authority that the Orc looked desperate, not murderous," Iffy replied. "And the one who spoke in common told the boy that his fellow was just hungry, but all they get is scraps not fit for a rat."

Closing my eyes, I nodded. "I'm glad Thorish is stepping up, then."

Iffy's face suddenly took on a determined fierceness I didn't expect. "Would that he 'stepped up' for Ûnran and didn't shout insults at him!"

"Um...," I replied stupidly.

"He is simply _awful_," my innocent little maid declared. "Word has reached my ears that all the while that Ûnran is at his duty, the Orcs curse him and sneer at him and call him dreadful names. Thorish ensures that even jeers spoken in their hateful tongue are expounded in common, so all may know what they think of poor Ûnran." Halting to gather herself, she took a deep breath and sighed. "Yet he ignores them," Iffy added softly. I swear, she had an admiring look in her eye, like she was talking about her biggest hero. "He carries on and doesn't even look at them."

Honestly, I was too worried about the crappy behavior of those Orcs to think about anything else. I felt like I was miles away from Ûnran and utterly helpless. I'd toddled along on The Biggest Adventure in some kind of useful capacity (although that was probably debatable) up to this point, and now I was stuck about as far away from the place where I could do the most good that I could possibly be. Except I wasn't as concerned about Big Earth-Shaking Events so much as getting Ûnran through the day. Just another day, and worry about tomorrow when it comes. I whined a little to Iffy about my frustration, and she got this mischievous look in her eye. Oh damn.

"You know," she suggested slyly, "we _could_ go down to the lower tiers on some errand or other." As if she read my deer-in-the-headlights look as some sort of reluctance, she hastily went on, "I've not gone so far down myself because I feared you may need my assistance, but... if you were to accompany me... though we would have to be _terribly_ discrete..."

I slowly nodded, warming to the idea so fast I'm surprised I didn't spontaneously combust. "You just earned yourself full-fledged sidekick status, my friend."

* * *

><p>If you think I mentioned a word of our plans to Ûnran that night, you're crazy. He came in looking about as downtrodden and hopeless as ever. I listened to him snarl curses, hurl insults, and promise vengeance on every single person who so much as glared at him downstairs, then hugged him tightly as he urgently swore he didn't mean any of it. Like I'd have him locked up for venting or something.<p>

He'd lost his appetite at some point during the day, but all he said about why he wasn't hungry was that it wasn't fair. Then he dragged himself to bed. I'm not an idiot, most of the time; I figured it was probably because the Orcs in holding weren't getting the kind of tasty treats he was enjoying up here. I'd have to see about that.

In the meantime, his lack of appetite kind of soured mine, so I joined him in bed. He just lay there face down, pressing the side of his face into the pillow and staring at the wall. Even though I was used to seeing his back and all the damages there, it was like those scars hit me in the face again, and I had to touch them. Just smooth my hand over his mangled skin, wishing I could take away the pain he was feeling now. And thinking again that all of this was my fault.

"I'm sorry, Ûnran," I whispered helplessly.

"Don' worry 'bout me," he mumbled. "They ain't beaten me yet."

_But they're taking you down notch by notch_, I thought sadly. "No, they haven't. You're a strong man. I'm really proud of you."

He shifted his body and turned his head so he could look at me. "Yuh mean that?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. You've proven yourself to me. God, you proved yourself back in the forest. You're good and strong and... I'm really glad you're my mate."

"Yuh sure?" he questioned, turning over and sitting up. "Even if... yuh can't go nowhere with me? Even if folks don't like yuh cause of me? Even if..."

I shushed him with fingers pressed to his lips and shook my head. "I will go anywhere I want to go, and I will take you with me. I will walk by your side _and_ hold your hand. I will wear a shirt that says, 'I'm With Sexy' and a big arrow pointing at you." He chuckled reluctantly and ducked his head to hide a little smile. I took hold of his hands. "I'm not ashamed, and I'm not afraid."

"I wanna be strong," he muttered. "I just get so mad."

"Who wouldn't?" I assured him. "You pretty much zip past me every time you come home, so you don't really hear what Barry tells me, do you?"

"What's he tell yuh?" Ûnran asked suspiciously.

"He tells me that you show amazing restraint," I reported, and couldn't really keep that pride out of my voice. For him to win over one of Denethor's men so quickly, Ûnran must have behaved completely unexpectedly. "He's told me several times that he and some of the guards are tempted to knock heads on your behalf. In fact, he said only yesterday that he's more appalled by his own people than he has been by anything you've done, including this." I pointed at the two of us. When he met my eyes, I gave him a sly little smirk. "Way to make them all look like ten times the asshole by not rising to their bait. That's what strength is, Ûnran, and you've got loads of it."

He looked bolstered and pleased for a moment, then his brow creased again and his shoulders sagged. "Yuh called me a 'strong man.'"

"It's just a word," I said quietly, hoping he wouldn't take it wrong. He was very sensitive about racial labels these days, having them thrown at him all day. "I mean it in the sense that you're male."

"Cause I ain't... a Man."

"I know, but that doesn't matter to me," I told him. "What you are isn't as important as who you are. And you are Ûnran."

"If I could be a Man for you...," he began, and I quickly shook my head.

"I know you would be, but that's not what I want. I want _Ûnran_, and you're doing a fine job of it. Keep up the good work. Don't change a thing." Smiling a little, I prodded the Singer. It had been a long time since she showed herself, what with all the stress lately. I think we both needed her now, though.

_Don't go changing to try and please me  
>You never let me down before<br>Don't imagine you're too familiar  
>And I don't see you anymore<em>

_I would not leave you in times of trouble  
>We never could have come this far<br>I took the good times, I'll take the bad times  
>I'll take you just the way you are<em>

Ûnran grinned shyly and lay down, holding out his arms to me. I snuggled next to him and rested my head on his shoulder, softly singing and rubbing his chest. He gradually relaxed, his fingers lightly twirling my hair, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>While I think it would have been fun to sneak down six levels humming the <em>Mission: Impossible<em> theme and darting in and out of shadows, Iffy strongly advised against that sort of silliness. She's now on probation. But I suppose she knows best. She also knows half the population of Minas Tirith.

If we hadn't been more or less pressed for time – as in, get down to the first tier before Ûnran had a chance to finish up and move to another area – it would have taken us _hours_ to make it there. Every few yards she was getting hailed by delivery boys, stableboys, apprentices and step-and-fetch-its and who knows what all else. Boys and girls barely in their teens who were too young to go to war yet old enough to haul buckets and sacks of grain, clever enough to navigate in and out of every tier's back alleys to get where they needed to go, and tough enough to do it all in a society that has no concept of child labor laws.

What's more, as soon as Iffy was recognized, they all knew immediately who I was. As you can imagine, there were some wide-eyed stares and fish-mouths as they tried to process the fact that they were now standing in the presence of The Woman Who's Fucking the Orc on the Seventh Tier. No, really. I don't care how young they were, you could totally see that in their faces. They know what it is – they've probably walked in on their parents a million times. It's weird, but I felt a hundred percent more embarrassed because they were _kids_ and they knew the score, but because they were kids I couldn't even _imagine_ explaining my reasons to them like I did to the grown-ups.

About all I could do was smile weakly and shrug like, _eh, whattaya do?_ Like it was an accident or something. _Yeah, minding my own business, all of a sudden I tripped and fell on an Orc, one thing led to another and..._

Luckily, nobody asked any embarrassing questions. Either they possessed some measure of courtesy, or the hissing little kitty spits Iffy was emitting like a machine gun were thwarting every attempt to interrogate me. Bless her. I guess she's off probation now.

With the aid of the largest collection of Short Round wannabees this side of the Misty Mountains, we skirted all sorts of traffic jams and authority figures who might question our activities. Because of course, what we were doing was 'forbidden.' Civilians not directly involved in the cleanup effort were not allowed to sight-see in the lower tiers. This little tidbit seemed to have no effect on the excited kids who smuggled me and Iffy down there. Not discouraged by 'rules' in the slightest. Rather damned thrilled to be sticking it to The Man, in fact.

When we finally reached the first tier, I was immediately acquainted with _why_ nobody was allowed down there. First off, there were still corpses lying around. Granted, they were lying around in piles before getting loaded onto wagons. Faramir had obviously informed the haulers that careless handling of Orc dead within rock-pitching distance of the Orc P.O.W.s was a no-no, because they were treating all the dead with the same sort of care. Not just flinging them bodily into the wagons or anything.

Secondly, as mentioned, there were Orcs. It had been a couple of days since I saw them last, back when His Stewardship thought it would be a keen idea to ask them if they'd be interested in magazine subscriptions. The awnings that were stretched across tall poles weren't very good at keeping the sun off them during the morning hours, and the poor guys were huddled in a tight group to keep their heads covered. Lower body exposure didn't seem to bother them as much.

Thank goodness Iffy was paying attention, though. While I was standing there dumbly looking at the Orcs' holding facility, she spotted Ûnran's crew heading in our direction.

"My lady! Quickly!" she hissed, and all but dragged me behind some fallen masonry. And there he was.

Okay, first impression on seeing Ûnran when he didn't know I was there put me right back in those damn dreams again, seeing him suffering and clenching his teeth and probably telling himself, _ignore, ignore, ignore_. Their duty for the day appeared to be breaking up another huge chunk very like the one Iffy and I were hiding behind; in minutes they were all taking pick-axes to the thing.

One guy in the group seemed to have it in for my Uruk, because not ten minutes into the effort, he shoved Ûnran's shoulder, nearly over-balancing him. My instinct was to jump up that guy's ass with extreme prejudice, which is evidently what Iffy thought I'd do, because she grabbed my wrist and shook her head warningly.

"Deaf _and_ stupid, are you?" the man snapped loud enough for us to hear. Ûnran straightened and snarled at him. All of a sudden, I wasn't looking at my lover, my friend, but at Ûnran the Orc, and he is one scary bastard.

"Don't touch me!" Ûnran barked. He hefted that pick in both hands like any minute now, the rocks weren't the only things he'd be chopping to pieces.

"Then answer when you are spoken to!"

"Ask somethin' worth answerin', then!" the Orc retorted. I could see his knuckles paling as his grip tightened. Oh my god...

"Stand down, Ûnran," Barry interceded. I swear I hadn't even noticed him. The guards must have been keeping a discrete distance while actual work was happening, but now were converging with weapons drawn. "And you, Alhand. Mind your tongue, and get back to work."

One of the other workers glared at this Alhand guy and kind of herded Ûnran away. I was surprised enough to see him putting his hand on Ûnran's back, like your buddy would to get your attention and remind you that rising to the taunts from that drunk at the bar would only get you in trouble. I was completely floored when he leaned close to Ûnran's ear and whispered to him. It looked even _more _like your buddy talking you down from royally pissed to some reasonable facsimile of not-gonna-beat-that-guy's-ass-to-a-pulp.

When Ûnran said these guys were getting friendlier, he didn't leave the impression that even one of them was _this_ friendly. He was visibly calming the longer the guy talked to him.

"I'm going to throw a rod in a minute if I don't find out what the hell they're saying," I whispered to Iffy.

"You mustn't!" she said in an urgent undertone. "We'll get in so much trouble."

"But who the hell is this guy?" I asked. "Ûnran hasn't said a word..."

"Ssshh!" she admonished. "My lady, you _must_ keep your voice down."

"Crud," I grumbled, and proceeded to sulk.

As I watched, Ûnran lowered the pick, sighed, and nodded, as though agreeing with that mystery guy. Who then patted the back of Ûnran's shoulder in a classic 'encouraging bro' sort of way. Ûnran shot one brief eat-shit-and-die look at the instigator still getting a stern talking to from Barry, then went back to work.

I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until everything calmed and the air leaked out of me like a punctured tire. Without the loud whistling, thank god.

"All is well, isn't it?" Iffy whispered, and I nodded. It looked like not only the guards had his back, but at least one of the crewmen did, too. That Alhand guy was put on a different task to keep him out of Ûnran's grill, and my mate gave that block of stone so much what-for... Well, it was fortunate the guy buggered off.

"Maybe we should retreat a bit," I suggested after a while of watching Ûnran laboring in the sun. I can't deny a bit of nether region fluttering going on, watching his strong muscular arms lifting that pick and bringing it down, the way his body straightened and curled, straightened and curled... Jesus.

"Yes, before you succumb to temptation," Iffy scolded, and I shot her a surprised look. What, it's written all over my face? Can _she_ smell it too? "If you attempt to defend him, we will be discovered and sent packing."

Oh. Of course.

The only other place in the immediate area with entertainment prospects was the Orc P.O.W. enclosure, so naturally we gravitated toward that. There were guards all around, though, so it was up to Iffy to recruit some young, adventurous lads to create the necessary 'fake fighting' diversions and direct us between half-demolished buildings and wagons full of either debris or corpses waiting to be removed.

Once again, these kids proved their fortitude. I was ready to barf from the stench of dead things all around, not to mention the occasional 'body part bucket' we stumbled across here and there. These kids – probably unacquainted with their first periods or nocturnal emissions – were skirting those gag-inducers like they were no more hurl-worthy than orange pylons on a defensive driving course. Even Iffy was unfazed, ruining every assumption I'd had that she was a delicate, girlie little thing. No pink dresses for _this_ chick – she'll have the chainmail and broadsword, thank you very much.

When we finally reached the vicinity, I got a really good look in there, and it wasn't all that pretty. It's not like they were wallowing in their own filth; some thoughtful person provided them with a set of buckets off to one side for their... leavings. Another thoughtful person was required to empty them, though. Taking a swift headcount, I came up with twenty seven Orcs in the pen. I probably miscounted; they were tightly packed under the tarp, trying to keep out of the sun.

I recognized Thorish right off, probably because his tummy bandage hadn't turned black from grime yet. He was sitting in a cluster of Orcs, his head bowed. It took me a minute, but I realized he was napping. Thank god, because he'd probably recognize my scent and blow my cover without a thought.

Most of the Orcs were asleep, as a matter of fact. Only the ones on the edges, the ones most susceptible to sun movement, were fidgeting with agitation.

"Oh my goodness, look at that poor wretch," Iffy murmured with profound sympathy. I mean _really._ Like she'd just laid eyes on a bedraggled, half-drowned kitten. I followed her gaze and saw this little guy, probably not even four feet tall, getting nudged out of the pile.

Well, to be more accurate, kicked out by several very annoyed feet. Between fruitless attempts to get in there, he sat on his haunches and whimpered. Yeah, I had to agree with her; that kitty needed a hug.

Then things started to get a little more animated. As we watched from relative safety, a pissy-looking guy drove a donkey-drawn wagon into the yard and parked pretty close to the pen. I exchanged a bewildered look with Iffy, who shrugged, just as ignorant of this new development as I was. The Orcs seemed to know what it was all about, though: they started kicking that little guy in earnest.

"Go get it, runt!" one of them barked, sending the poor shorty tumbling toward the fence. Iffy sucked in a small gasp.

The runt limped up to the fence and waited. By the look of him, he probably took all the crap those bigger Orcs dished out. He didn't so much stand as crouch tensely like he was prepping to spring away the moment a fist raised. The sun showed off his earthy green skin and long, batlike ears. His eyes were squinted, but you could tell that when he opened them up all the way, they were about as big as frickin' baseballs. In fact, he looked a hell of a lot like those little shits from Moria, now that I had a better look at him. Down to the weird nose placement, though on him it didn't look so bad. Probably because he was considerably less pissed than the ones I saw in Moria.

Anyway, while I was comparing him to a summer's day, the agitated driver collared a seemingly unoccupied boy nearby and conscripted him in ration dispersement duty. Together they hauled chunks of... something from the back of the wagon and hefted them through a small opening directly into a trough just inside the fence. The runt immediately picked up what squelched wetly inside and hustled it over to the pile of Orcs. Then he came back for another load.

I have to say it: that crap looked like the absolute worst cuts of meat the world has ever seen. It was raw to begin with, so _blecch_, but it was also _grey_. Like it had been stored too long and was unfit for human consumption. I suppose these people figured it was still fit for Orcs. I forced myself to glance at the line of overflowing shit buckets and did the math – these assholes were feeding the Orcs rotten meat. Didn't that cause all kinds of bad news in the intestines? God dammit! Well, if you think I was going to just sit back and let this happen...

Yes, I'm totally going upstairs and rat these bastards out to dad.

Thinking back now, I think that was the exact point where I lost control of the situation. I was fuming lividly and not paying any attention to what was happening, but Iffy was watching. Mr. Snarky Deliveryman evidently thought it would be funny to tease the poor little step-and-fetch-it by letting a loaf of bread (maggotty, I'll bet) fall on the wrong side of the fence and nudge it just out of reach. Poor little guy was falling for it, too – he stuck his arm out through the fence and was grasping for it, holding his tongue between his teeth as if that would make his arm longer. The Man was chuckling cruelly, too. So in a way, it's entirely his fault, not mine.

Iffy suddenly stood up and stomped over to the fence, glaring daggers at that deliveryman. He abruptly stopped laughing and just stared at her with surprise, because she was dressed a bit – okay, a lot – more nicely than the other boys and girls flitting about down there.

"Shame on you!" she cried, wagging her finger at him. Without breaking stride, she went to the fence and picked up the bread loaf. It was kind of comical: the little Orc tried to hastily retract his arm, but his bony elbow hit the boards and he had a time of it twisting and angling to get his hand back to 'safety.' Iffy remained crouched and waited patiently for him to sort himself out. Then she stood when he was able to, and handed the bread through the hole.

I half expected to hear soaring music when they both had their hands on that bread loaf. She smiled warmly, his mouth twitched uncertainly. Her cheeks darkened, he looked away shyly. All I could think was, _What the fuck did I just shape here?_

Jesus, Ûnran. I'm really sorry, but I think you just lost your number one fan to a runty Goblin.

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_mau_ = soldier/warrior

_graz_ = cold

**Song Lyric: **"Just the Way You Are" by Billy Joel


End file.
